


A Lover Calls

by deitabytes



Category: An Inspector Calls - Priestley
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2019-12-26 06:50:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18278015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deitabytes/pseuds/deitabytes
Summary: The Inspector has rocked the Birlings' worlds, and now Eric is alcohol dependant, anxiety ridden, and alone, with the threat of "fire and blood and anguish" looming over him.He's also in love with his sister's fiancé.This can only end well.





	1. I Would For You

**Author's Note:**

> I Would For You - Nine Inch Nails  
> >>>  
> !!!((TW: throwing up, panic attacks, internalized homophobia))!!!  
> <<<

 

He realizes what's about to happen about a second before it does.

Thankfully he's skilled at the art of finding the nearest container with superhuman speed. He lunges at the vase on the side table: old, ornate, and probably valuable. To him, at times like this, that value has little worth, but the practical design certainly did.

Here comes a familiar routine. White-hot needles prick the inside of his nose and his eyes grow damp. That's the worst part of the affair – he has been raised with quite deliberate instructions to never let tears leave his eyes, and whether these stem from emotion or the expulsion his body is currently trying to perform, they are a testament to the failures of his life thus far.

The saliva in his throat thickens, his stomach lurches, he leans forward until his face is in that beautiful vase…

The poison flows out of his open mouth without much protest. Once upon a time, not so long ago, he’d retch and gag and sputter, spit, choke, screw his face up and curse the world and the pounding percussion in his head that often accompanied this show. Now he knows it's pointless, or perhaps his spirit has left him gradually along with the last night’s ‘party’. In any case he doesn't complain; he's wise in these matters, experienced past his years in the delicate art of excessive alcohol consumption.

Eric supposes, as licks of limp brown hair cling to his clammy forehead, that it's fair trade: a night of forgetting for a morning of regret.

Body finally clear of toxins, he draws his head back and assesses his surroundings. The school of life has taught him that little skill; he knows his recent memory will be covered, at least for now, with a thick fog. If he tries to access it, it will swirl and dance around his eyes without showing him much at all. He’d probably need that vase again. Instead, he focuses on the present.

The room he finds himself in is comfortable enough, but certainly not homelike. The walls are dowered with detailed paintings, still life and portraits, fruit and fields and families. In the centre of everything stands a heavy, solid wooden table, and surrounding it chairs are arranged. Two have been placed neatly at the table, but the other three are unaligned, as if they had been left hastily

Finally, Eric’s eyes come to the table itself. There lays an empty bottle of port, glass illuminated by the early morning sun streaming in through the window. That goes some way to explain the situation.

A feeling of dread drips down his spine like cold water, and he feels very certainly he should not be in that room. He walks, stumbling every couple of steps, to the door, opens it slightly, and peers out.

At this point he's certain he's in his own house, which is somewhat of a comfort. He continues his clumsy trail: across the entrance hall, a brief peek into the living room. No life there: the fire doesn't burn as it usually does. All that remained is embers and soot. The flow down his spine picks up a little pace.

His search leads him to the ever-closed door of his father’s home office. Somewhere in the depth of his memory, he has the feeling the last uninvited entry to an office of his father had not ended entirely well. He brings his tight fist up to the wooden door and knocks, almost too quietly for even he himself to hear. The flow has sped to a river. He takes as much air into his lungs as he can and knocks again, with the force expected of a man in his early twenties. Eric is almost thankful for the lack of response.

An arduous climb up the stairs, clinging tight to the railing and then reverting to hands and knees when gripping onto the last drops of his sophistication becomes too difficult. The upper floor is just as barren as the ground. The dread hanging over him begins to resemble a waterfall.

In fear of losing the skill of rational thought, Eric sits himself on his own bed and considers, as best he can, the next action he should undertake. A drink is probably in order; water would heal him from the vague haze surrounding him, but something a little stronger would both cure him of caring about that and calm his frazzled nerves. His shaking hands make their way to the bell on his wall.

_Kling._

The sound resonates around the room, piercing Eric’s ears and making him wince. And yet he does not hear any shuffle from elsewhere in the house, no sign of Edna making her way to serve him. He tries again, this time longer and with as much force as he can manage in his considerably fragile state. Upon that failure, he decides to call her name.

Not a sound. He is alone.

His entire body is submerged in icy-cold water and he is drowning. There is no other explanation for why his lungs feel so tight and every breath so forced. He is dying and no one will save him. He lays back on his mattress as the tank he is in fills up and up and up, way past his head, way past his feet. Liquid is trickling into his lungs, swelling up his insides, until all he can do is twitch. His conscious movement is paralyzed – legs sewed to the sheets, arms coiled around his chest as the water engulfs him. He sinks like a rock to the bottom and remains still as all the air leaves his lungs. Dying, dying, then dead to the world, alive only in his memory, however vague and hazy they be. A phone ringing, smashing into his head. A screaming argument. Family leaving. Police? Chugging, chugging, chugging. Now, total calm, the eye of the storm, down at the bottom of the ocean. Every gasp welcoming more and more liquid into his swollen body. This is where he is destined to lay forever, missing under all that damn water, up his nose and in his eyes. The jolts running periodically through his form do nothing to wake him from his grave. He gives himself in.

Until something grabs his shoulders and welcomes him back to reality.

The water crashes down around him, splashing onto the ground and swiftly evaporating. His eyes remain clenched shut. He doesn't want to see, doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to live.

“Eric, my chap, what in the Heavens are you doing?” asks a familiar voice.

Eric reluctantly allows his senses to return to his surroundings. The sheets clenched by his fidgeting fingers are surprisingly soft against his fingertips. He lets himself remain there for a second, lost in the comforting rhythm of fingernail rubbed against material. Warm and dry. But if he isn’t drowning, why is his face so wet? Why do his eyes sting if they hadn’t been assaulted by salty sea water?

The tension stuck in his muscles slowly left, allowing him to catch up with his breath. The corset around his chest is undone. Finally, finally, he is able to fill his lungs with air. One, two, three, four shaky breaths rock through his diaphragm. With all the effort left in his body, he forces his damp eyes to open.

He takes in the figure directly in front of his face piece by piece. Gentle, light curls framing a forehead etched with worry lines. Wide eyes, irises like an open bay, murky water flecked with sunbeams. A sharp nose, strong jaw, clean cut and well groomed, poster child for any one of the expensive barbers uptown. Lips, pink and soft, pointed downwards in a soft frown. Eric’s vision swims for a moment, then refocuses on his saviour. He blinks heavily.

“Gerald?” His voice is cracked and dry.

“Ah, Eric. Hello. You look like one of those madmen.”

Eric suspects he more than just looks mad but responds with a slight nod. On another occasion, he may have clambered for an explanation, one that allowed him to maintain some shade of masculinity. Now is not the time, nor the place, nor the person. For Gerald, he is anything but masculine.

While he doesn’t seem to be drowning any more, the experience has rather exhausted him. Still, he can't draw his attention away from the man standing before him. The fluttering in Eric’s stomach is not entirely unlike nausea, but it is gentler – it doesn't slap him, rather caress his worn face.

“Are you alright?” Gerald asks, voice now sterner than before. “You look a frightful mess.” Eric feels that, too. As his awareness sharpens, he finds the pain around his body to be cutting through the daze of whatever has just happened to him, and even through the security of Gerald’s hands on his shoulders. As if reading his mind, Gerald stands up and walked swiftly to the door. “When you’re quite ready, you should come to the dining room. We have a lot to discuss.”

He leaves, and Eric is alone again.

For the briefest of moments, he lets himself float in that glimpse of Gerald’s caring nature. One last deep, rattling breath, then he'd up from the bed and stumbling across the floor once more.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror on the way out and recoils slightly. Gerald was right – his face is tinted with a characteristic flush, his eyes puffy and ringed in red, bloodshot with dark circles underneath as if he hadn’t known sleep for weeks. His hair, unruly at the best of times, is stuck at several points to his sweaty skin. He considers stopping to make himself presentable, but the damage has already been done. Gerald knows well of his pathetic and vulnerable state and dressing up won’t call back that information.

However, he is quite determined not to get lower than this point. A fall down the stairs is unlikely to improve his appearance or wellbeing, so he steps carefully, one foot at a time, to a slow rhythm. Then he's in the entrance hall. And the dining room is just ahead.

Dread begins to trickle down his back again, and his heart skips a beat. Something bad happened in that room, he knew it. But Gerald is waiting for him. He mutters a tiny prayer and lumbers into the room.

Gerald stands at the far end of the table, gazing out of the window. Eric notices how different the room feels to just an hour before. The curtains have been drawn wide, allowing sunlight to stream in and make every surface glimmer. On the table there stands only a glass of water (or something stronger? thinks Eric momentarily, before dismissing that as unlikely). And Gerald himself, outlined in a halo of warmth, makes the room so much brighter.

Eric sits at the other end of the table and takes a long sip of the liquid – yes, definitely water. He feels it travel down his throat and his heart thudds, making him jump slightly, as his mind conjures a thousand images of him choking or drowning. He reaches the end of the cup and sighs. Of course it was Gerald who had provided him with help, turned wine into water and tried to heal him. He returns the glass to the table with a clunk just as Gerald turns around.

He takes his place at the head of the table and straightens his back, blond hair shining like gold. Eric considers bowing but realizes thankfully quickly how odd that gesture would seem.

“I believed I had missed a lot yesterday evening,” he speaks clearly, “but this morning I have realized that you did too. Tell me what you know, and I will tell you the rest.”

Eric’s stomach lurches as he realizes what Gerald is asking of him. He glances across the room and takes note that the vase is still in place.

“Are you asking about… that Inspector, and… Eva…” Eric’s voice trails off.

“The whole business. That crank fellow, the girl, how you and your parents are involved.”

Something shoots through Eric at the thought of Eva Smith. He remembers her only as colours without shapes: drinking and mating and stealing-

To think of Eva Smith is torture enough, but to think of her with Gerald Croft in the room is worse than the hottest fire or coldest water of hell. Even before the most recent scandal, between socialist sympathies, compulsive drinking and clear lack of interest in the fairer sex, Eric has been the family disappointment.

But that night with Eva was a deeper layer of pain. He had been so desperate to forget the longing he was feeling. Longing that was sinful and unfair. Longing that would hurt his own sister. His heart had been on fire, his mind lost at sea. He had tried to fix himself.

Sitting in that dining room, seeing Gerald basking in God’s light, it is clear he has failed.

The next Eric knows, his face is pressed into the vase and a putrid smell fills his senses.

This time isn’t as smooth as before. Short gasps break through the heaves, and by the time the horrible occasion is over his eyes are running. Gerald watches over him, unphased.

“Good God, Eric. I had wondered what that awful stench was. Do you make a habit of this?”

“Not if I can help it,” Eric replies, out of breath. He pushes his hair back from covering his face. “Sorry.” A pause. “I don’t believe I’m able to tell you anything.”

Gerald’s neutral expression twists into something Eric didn’t quite recognise, like the older prefects at boarding school after they’d given him a punishment. Except it isn't quite the same – something in Gerald’s features is kinder than those boys, as if he were tiptoeing the line of empathy.

Eric walks back to his established seat, keeping an eye on Gerald the whole way. They sit as such for what seemed like eons to Eric – him still panting, while Gerald maintains the epitome of business professionalism.

Eric reminds himself to dispose of that vase at the nearest possible convenience.

Finally, Gerald stands.

“If you won’t talk, I will” He dusts down his blazer and readjusts his tie. “After you excused yourself to the cellar, the other Birlings had a rather passionate fight.” His eyes shift. “You know what your sister is like. She ran off with Edna, speaking of… ‘suffragettes’?”

“Oh,” says Eric, mind racing. “Sorry about your engagement.”

“Never mind that,” Gerald snaps. “I’m not done yet. Your parents have some suspicions about that Inspector. They plan to travel to America on the unsinkable ship your father mentioned. In the meantime, Croft’s and Birling’s will be partnered and placed under the control of my father and me. I suspected you wouldn’t protest.”

“No,” agrees Eric through the knot forming in his throat, “I don’t suppose I would.”

“Well then, everything is settled.” He moves to the door. “Then I will be off. I’m a busy man, you know, even without this horrid business.” His eyes flickered over the vase. “I do hope you can take care of yourself. Perhaps you should arrange for a new maid. Good day.”

Eric listens as Gerald’s footsteps faded to inaudible and the front door slammed. He is alone once again.


	2. Bubbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bubbles - Hippo Campus  
> >>>  
> !!!((TW: alcoholism, depression, anxiety))!!!  
> <<<

Eric finds it easier than first expected to adjust to life alone.

Never much a fan of change, the disappearance of his relatives is not enough to significantly disrupt his daily routine. It certainly helps that, even before the incident with the Inspector, he had little contact with them beyond meals and occasionally crossing paths in the entrance hall on the way to his nightly town-crawl. He hardly notices, therefore, the new stillness of the large house his father had worked so hard for.

It must have also helped that he spent most of his time in a dosed-up stupor, with or without family members in the vicinity. Little needs to be adjusted, consciously at least.

Never much of a dandy either, it doesn’t take long for his day-to-day existence to spiral into resembling a looped drinking game. That spills over into weeks, flashes of levelheadedness strung together by swallowing. Waking up with pounding in his ears and forehead, swallowing, stumbling through the dining room doors into the garden, swallowing, lounging, eating from the pantry when human instinct returns. The passage of time marked only by days getting longer, the sky a little clearer, and tiny, fragile daisies poking out between the grass.

The first time he notices those flowers, something inside him begins to stir. The liquid flowing down his throat seems to find something at the end of the tunnel, and settle, slowly filling whatever pit lay inside of him. From then, he sees angels in the grass, faces framed by blond, curly halos.

Only hidden out in the garden.

Consequence, Eric supposes, is bound to catch up with him at some point, and sure enough it comes for him. Edna had been diligent, back in the other world where she was in the Birling’s employ, but Eric’s father had sternly rejected the prospect of war to come, and the pantry had not been stocked with rationing in mind. He's quite disheartened to find, one day in what must have been early July, no alcoholic beverage remained in the house.

A man functioning at any higher level may have decided then and there to simply acquire more. To Eric, this is not an option. While the prospect of sober living leaves him with enormous crushing in his chest, going out and about would be far worse. Far too long has passed without human interaction for readjustment without support to be possible. He has developed a habit of covering his eyes before passing any of the household’s many ornate mirrors, for fear of what he will come face to face with.

Not to mention that he has no access to his father’s accounts, nor what has come of the business, nor whether the police are after him for theft.

And so he resigns himself to pacing across room after room as the last joyful influence of drink seeps from him, and to holding himself still, draped over his bed, as the shaking settles in.

He feels Gerald with him countless times across those terrible days, patting his head as his limbs tremble so hard that his body is lifted from the surface beneath him. But the man never appears in full view, only shadowing the other figures dancing before him.

“Please, God, make them go away,” Eric slurs between tears, and Gerald grasps his hand, but the figures dance on.

The worst seems to pass after several nights. Eric feels his head is clearer than it has been for almost as long as he can remember. He does not appreciate it. With the haze gone, every mistake of his life thus far is free to come to him with painstaking clarity. 

Those images follow him as he walks, every morning, down the stairs and out to the garden. On days without fog, which are frequent now, he can see down into Brumley. Watching the people, many of whom had known him. What do they know of the incident? What do they think of him? The things following him delight in telling him it all, in vivid detail.

He decides to stay asleep as much as possible.

He is not completely safe in his dreams, but at least there's the blissful moment upon first waking up when he can believe it's all a dream, and Sheila and Gerald will be making light conversation downstairs.

He begins to wonder when the pantry will run out.

How long can a man go without eating?

Who would find him?

\---

 The sun rises particularly early that morning. Bright rays break through Eric’s curtain-less windows, waking him from another night of restless sleep. That figure remains still, sprawled across the bed, chest gently rising and falling.

Sometime later he clambers out, the ragged sheets tangling around his clammy legs as he struggles to keep his eyes open.  

The new diet must be having an effect on his body. Each step pulls and twists a different muscle, and he doesn't think the pit in his stomach could be attributed completely to loneliness. Still, he's living as best he can. Stumbling down the stairs, he wonders how long that will last.

Finally, he falls through the door into the garden.

The sun hangs relatively low across the horizon, but that does not prevent it from lighting the world to a blinding glare. Everything is colours: acres of shining emerald blurring into sapphire skies.

And gold. Eric takes a while to notice it as his eyes adjust to the brightness. There, shortly down the path, sitting upright on the garden’s chaise longue and gazing into the distance, is that golden halo, and the man who so often accompanies it.

What little control Eric still holds crumbles around him.

“Gerald!” he cries, and the other man turns with unprecedented speed. Eric throws himself down the path, launching his body further and further until he reaches Gerald’s lonely picnic. Closer now, he can see the glass in one of his hands. A wicker basket is placed carefully on the seat next to him.

Gerald’s eyes widen.

“Good god. You’re still here?”

The tightness in Eric’s respiratory system prevents him from answering. Gerald returns his expression to one more neutral and clears his throat.

“Well, by all means sit down.”

Eric obeys silently. The two catch each other’s eyes as he wordlessly communicates the depth of his current situation. He asks himself what any of Brumley’s respectable citizens would think of the scene – Gerald dressed up, as ever, as the hard headed businessman, and Eric with crumpled trousers, a hardly buttoned shirt, and total lack of tie, coat or hat.

“If you’re not going to speak, I suppose I shall have to,” he says, reaching into the basket beside him. “There’s an awful lot that needs addressing. Port?”

Eric recognizes that alcohol is not be a good idea at that moment. But he simply cannot turn down an offer from Gerald. Not now. His tongue circles once round his dry lips, and he nods. Gerald pours the liquid into another glass and hands it to Eric, ignoring the slight tremble of the younger man’s hand as their skin makes contact.

Both men take a sip, and silence falls once again.

“Do you already know,” Gerald begins at last, “about the incident with your parents?” Eric finishes the drag of drink he has taken, then shakes his head slightly. “Ah. Then… you must have heard about the sinking of that ship, the Titanic, some months ago?” Eric shakes his head again, prompting Gerald’s face to morph in confusion. “Well, it sunk. A luxury cruise liner to the colonies, it hit an iceberg. And… your parents were on it. They…”

He trails off, leaving Eric to fill in the gaps. He suspects that he wouldn’t have felt much worse about the whole affair even if the port wasn’t dulling his senses.

“I see,” he says. “Pity.”

“Indeed. Luckily, I suppose, full control of your father’s business was handed over to me before the horrid affair. And I wrote to Sheila… she informed me of everything I missed.”

“Sheila?”

“Her whereabouts now are unknown. I believe she’s still with Edna. I thought I was the only one left in Brumley…”

Eric ponders for a moment.

“Where did you think I was?”

“I can’t say I had any idea. I… I did wonder. I wanted to see you.”

Those words catch Eric off guard. He tries not to show how his heart jumps, but it must show on his face. “For business purposes, of course,” Gerald adds, tripping over his words slightly.  

He continues to fill the silence with talk of shares and management and factories, but Eric is too far gone to listen. The alcohol is seeping into his mind. His attention is stuck on Gerald’s brief hesitation. He is suddenly aware that, aside from the man beside him, he is totally alone in the world.  

And that's it. Having every wish, hope and desire next to him, and the knowledge that he’d lose it all if that man left, is too much. He scrambles to refocus, to clamber back on to the road of the conversation, the sacred words from Gerald’s soft lips, but lightning is already striking through Eric’s head.

And before he knows it he's curled up on the grass, somehow lowering what dignity he had left. And he is being sick again, but the contents of his stomach stay in and instead out pours his heart. He hears himself mutter about the girl, the inspector, the baby, the money, and his own voice feels far away. Trapped inside his thumping heart, vaguely aware that he is screaming until his throat dries completely, cutting off his confession, leaving him with burning, wet cheeks, lying on the grass with the daisies.

A weight descends upon his shoulder and something pulls him upright. Gerald is crouched, seeking eye-contact, but Eric can’t bring himself to it. Even if he wanted to, the hyperventilation and tremors through his body give him very little control of his actions. The world is strangely still now, like the eye of a storm. Gerald might send him away, or just leave, or call the police and get him in prison, Eric thinks, but it doesn't matter. It can’t get lower than this, so he resigns himself to a dark fate.

But Gerald stays at his level, hands moving up from his shoulders, softly trailing up his neck until he's cupping Eric’s face in his palms. His stare doesn't falter, but it isn’t harsh or judgmental, and when Eric finally meets his gaze, he almost sees the ghost of a smile.

“Breathe with me,” he whispers, and inhales deeply. Holds. Exhales. Eric shudders through it, thoroughly wrapped up in Gerald, in his view and his grasp. He slowly lifts his right hand to wipe the shameful tears from his eyes, but Gerald takes his wrist halfway there and grips his hand tightly.

“How long have you been like this?” he asks quietly, but Eric only continues to breathe shakily. “Your wrist is awfully thin. How long-?” Quick gasps shake Eric’s chest again, and Gerald closes his mouth immediately, pulling in the younger man closer to the warmth of himself and hugging his arms around his back. “It’s fine. I promise it will be fine. I’ll help you. I owe it to your father, or your sister, or-”

It breaks him. The dam of Eric’s self-control bursts with the pressure of his proximity to this man.

He pulls himself back slightly and carefully presses his lips to Gerald’s

He expects to be thrown off and spat at, and while that terrifies him, the prospect of going any longer in the purgatory of his longing scares him even more. But instead Gerald presses back, squeezes him still tighter as one hand brushes the long, unkempt hair from Eric’s sticky forehead.

Somewhere in the shock of his current situation, Eric notices how right it feels. So different from anything he’d ever done with girls. Here, stuck between Gerald’s chest and Gerald’s arms, with Gerald’s face in his, it has to be heaven. Eric thinks ‘bloody hell’ and lets himself go completely.

What started gently rises to a crescendo. His body is being smothered by that angel’s touch, lighting a fire inside him, because somewhere in the passion they’ve fallen back so Gerald is pinning him to the ground, fingers tangled in his hair, damp breath and pulling and heat. They are joint at the hip, and Eric can tell the other man is feeling what he's feeling down there. There in the garden, their movement in sync, so tightly wound that Eric could burst. Tongue around tongue, panting, but beyond the lust and clattering teeth and subtle thrusting, there's a promise.

Until Gerald pulls up suddenly, gasping for air. Seemingly noticing for the first time what exactly he’d just been doing, his eyes grow larger than Eric had ever seen. Eric watches him jolt to a stand and simply looks at him, outlined by the sun, too spaced out and overjoyed to care about the consequences.

“You kissed me?” he asks incredulously between deep, quick exhales.

“You did kiss back,” replies Eric in a rush.

“I… well, perhaps.” He readjusts his shirt. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

“Did you -”

“Don’t! Don’t- just don’t say anything. God, the state of you. We shall go inside.”

It hurts, Eric realizes, the prospect of that all meaning nothing hurts his stomach and head and heart. But something in the air has shifted. There is an undeniable difference in the relationship between the two of them now, and if nothing else, Gerald will surely not abandon a paramour reliant on him again. Comforted, he follows him back to the house.


	3. Take On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long delay!

They make a dance out of it, in some ways. They settle quickly into a waltz of living as a pair but step oh so delicately around that glaring moment. As though the situation – two unrelated grown men cohabiting in a manor house – was made perfectly normal as long as the gentle sin had never happened.

Not that Eric wants to ignore it. Although Gerald builds him up, offering him the holy hand and curing his sickness and pain, that unmentionable sickness only grows, grinding him promptly back down. While his outward appearance has returned to half-way respectable, and it seems possible to fix his reputation and save his name, that gnawing inside him spreading through his heart and mind and guts is unavoidable. Every accidental brushing of skin on skin, the way Gerald’s lips purse when he’s concentrating on the company finance, how his golden hair replaced the sun when summer died, and autumn fell.

Eric is sure his sinful disease will be the death of him, but something is better than nothing, and Gerald’s presence calms his nerves more than it frazzles them, and he has nowhere else to go anyway. So he lets it simmer for months, holding everything in during the day in hopes of not scaring Gerald away, and letting himself free hidden in the privacy of his bedsheets at night, then sleeping before the guilt can inflict too much damage.

Thus the sacred weeks with Gerald pass like sand through his fingertips.

\---

The day has been an awkward one. Eric was beginning to lose hope of returning to that moment in the garden, and Gerald has been particularly jumpy, flinching away when their hands touch handing over business papers, and fiercely avoiding eye contact. Determined not to give up that easily, he had suggested a night on the town, at the Palace, to wind down.

It backfired. Gerald is in some corner with old business partners, leaving Eric alone by the bar. The memories of that place are steadily settling at the front of his mind, and suddenly it feels far too crowded.

He knows, really, that ordering a drink is not a good option, that it will lead to nothing good, and has huge potential to ruin his progress – Gerald’s progress on him – and jeopardise his chances altogether. The liquid could certainly put out whatever remains of the spark between them.

The fire that scorches in his throat as he swallows briefly makes up for it.

And with no Gerald nor Father around to stop him, he goes back and back again.

The familiar blanket of drunkenness wrapping around him is comforting. He lets it happen, enjoying the sensation of all his stresses and heartaches retreating to somewhere far away as his senses dull.

But he’s never been the sleepy type. Instead, he knows that drinking can put him in a state where a chap easily turns nasty. He does not like the idea of that much, but –

 

There, across the packed room, he spies a scene that makes his heckles rise. An old, obscenely large man, seemingly attempting to engulf the tired-looking girl before him. Hatred churns in Eric’s stomach, a blast from deep within him directed not just towards the man, but inwards too.

Eric is struck with the terrible feeling than what he is seeing is a ghost of his life yet to come. A possibility, if Gerald were to leave him, if he were to forget the Inspector’s lessons and go back to his old ways, if he were to repeat that terrible mistake. The thought fills him with unprecedented recklessness. He would rather die than let that future happen. He must protect this girl.

But how? He has no leverage, no authority, he’s probably well past even coherent speech. Fixing his gaze on the offensive scene, he tries to formulate a plan of action. He’ll have to be one step ahead, like in the chess games he and Gerald have taken to enjoying in the evenings. He ought to avoid making a huge scene, for the girl’s safety as much as his reputation…

All thoughts of intricate planning fly out of his pounding head when the girl catches his glare. She’s shifted herself as close to the back of the chair as she can, distancing herself from the man, but he remains close and she remains vulnerable. Her brown doe eyes are almost quivering, and her soft lips part only slightly as she mouths ‘help me’.

Eric feels he’s been shot in the chest. Her vulnerability reminds him too much of Eva – but no, Eva hadn’t been like that, had she? His own father and sister knew her to be capable, able to protect herself. Eric had seen that to. Perhaps that was why his drunken, furious mind had targeted her, to dominate, to make up for his own lowly position within his household. With Eva he could seize power, become the patriarch of a new family and have what he couldn’t with his sister’s fiancé. His past-self’s philosophy sickens him to his core.

There’s no time to lose. He stands quickly, the bar stool scraping loudly against the wooden floor, and stumbles across to where the man is. The girl has turned her attention back to him. As Eric approaches, he can make out the conversation.

“Such a pretty little thing, hey?” His voice is stooped in booze and gluttony. “Why don’t you come and be mine?”

“No thank you, sir. I’m not that sort of girl.”

Her response infuriates him. He raises his arm, making the girl flinch.

“Not that sort of girl? Well, I’ll see to that,” he mutters, and lunges to grab for her arm.

Not so fast. Eric’s within reaching distance now and intercepts the man’s movement before he can touch her. He whips around to face Eric.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he exclaims. Eric swallows.

“I shan’t let you t-touch this girl. She’s not int’rested.” He can hear how weak he sounds, slurring and probably stinking of alcohol, but his every artery is on fire and he refuses to back off.

“Mind your own business.”

“No,” says Eric, before the fist hits his face.

His ears are ringing and his top lip feels like it’s being torn apart. He staggers backwards, just a step or two, before hauling up his own arm and retaliating.

His loosely clenched hand meets the man’s nose with a sickening crunch. He cries out, hand flying upwards to cover the clearly painful injury. When he moves it away to assess the damage, his palm is coated in blood. If looks could kill, Eric would be dead and buried with the snarl the man is shooting at him.

Eric’s courage dries up, flight absolutely taking over fight in his body’s priorities. He turns and runs, tripping over tables and chairs, some with people sitting at them. The man gives chase.

By now, the whole bar has caught wind of the altercation. People are standing up, covering their mouths in shock. Bar fights are hardly uncommon in the grand scheme of things, but the Palace has done it’s best to maintain an image bordering almost on classy, and the contrast of Eric’s still fragile figure with the other man’s bulk must make their conflict quite the spectacle.

Eric reaches open space in the middle of the room and spins, surrounded. Behind the (luckily slowly) approaching man he dares to glimpse at where they had been and realises, with considerable relief, that the girl has escaped. The satisfaction of a task completed does little, however, to combat the body-locking fear pouring over him. There are far too many people around him, a man coming for him, the door so far away.

 _Coward,_ rings a familiar voice in his head, _disappointment. I wish Gerald were my son._

The next thing Eric knows he’s being held up against the bar, thick hands clamped around his neck. He desperately sucks in breath through his tight throat and fails miserably to fill his lungs enough to reach any relief. All that exists is the grip of the man’s hands, the clamour erupting around them, the fiery pits inside him dwindling, burnt out.

He thinks, with the last energy he has left, of retribution. In his bleary vision, the meaty face in front of him morphs into a much prettier sight, all high cheekbones but round cheeks, passionate eyes, ringlets of light brown hair hanging down her forehead. This is what he deserves, what Eva earned, to ruin him. She and the baby could have peace in heaven, safe in the knowledge that Eric was sealed in hell.

He lets himself sink into the darkness.

 

He doesn’t reach the bottom. The hands around his neck are being pried off, and someone has grabbed his arm, and they are running, slamming into the door. It swings open and they fall into the street. The person beside him drags him down a street or two, until suddenly he’s in a cab, jolting up and down with the horse’s gait.

“What were you thinking?” hisses Gerald, his eyes squinted and brows low. Eric can’t answer, not yet. Now he can breathe again, he’s all too aware of the searing pain in his lip and jaw. It takes everything he has to avoid planting his head on Gerald’s shoulder and resting. Instead, they sit in still silence.

If he thinks the journey back to the house will be enough to diffuse Gerald’s irritation, he’s wrong. As soon as the cab draws to a stop he grabs Eric’s shoulder and all but pushes him into the cool night air. He pays the driver – Eric assumes he tips well for the dramatic circumstances of their entrance – and before he knows it, he’s sat in the parlour, Gerald kneeling in front of him with a damp cloth.

Ever so gently, Gerald dabs around his split lip, removing the dried blood.

“It’s still bleeding,” he states. Eric just looks between the cloth and Gerald’s eyes. “Eric, why do you do this to yourself?”

“I don’t make a habit of being punched,” he replies. “We were at a bar. What else was I going to do but drink?”

“I don’t know, join the conversation like any other man?” Gerald snaps. Eric winces as he goes particularly hard with the cloth.

“I…” Eric chokes. “There was a girl. And a man. It… he wouldn’t leave her alone. I had to help. I owe it to… to…”

He wants to die. He’d rather die than face Gerald now tears are rolling down his cheeks, now Gerald can see the full extent of how pathetic he is. He’s crying again, as if that’s all his capable of, just a coward, a disappointment. That makes his tears flow even heavier.

But Gerald, dear Gerald, who’s soft even when he’s sharp, is pulling him close and holding. It’s easier to breathe when he can feel Gerald’s chest rising against his own, and his warm exhales on his cheek. Gerald’s lips flutter over his own. And Eric can’t bring himself to give so he takes, accepting Gerald’s gentle pushing. It’s almost still, almost completely lacking movement. It’s so sweet, tinged with metal, and Eric feels he may explode. It’s over as soon as it began. Gerald goes right back to cleaning Eric’s face, and his own mouth, which has been dyed slightly red.

“We must stop doing this,” says Gerald.

“You definitely started it this time,” Eric replies. Gerald grunts.

“Your lip is still bleeding,” he says, as if that’s an answer. “Do we have medical supplies?”

“It will heal on its own, as long as it’s not aggravated any further,” Eric says, not quite sure if he means to communicate spite or irony. Whatever is it, it gets across. He can see the tiny widening of Gerald’s eyes, the twitch of his jaw.

“Very well,” he says, as he stands and leaves the parlour, leaving Eric to simmer in newfound, tearful valour.


	4. Falling For You

Autumn fades into Winter in a blur of leaves and gentle snow. Not wanting them both to freeze and intending not to live in the squalor expected of bachelors, Eric takes it upon himself to pick up the basic chores of sweeping, lighting fireplaces and cooking basic meals. It would be emasculating, especially with Gerald’s half-smirks every time he catches sight of Eric midway through a womanly activity. But Eric thinks he sees the other half of that expression; a look of pride. Eric knows better than to kid himself that Gerald’s approval isn’t all that kept and keeps him going. So, he sweeps like the best little maid in the town.

That is, to a point. The house is quite big, and Eric is still, technically, a businessman. A white male can only be expected to do so many domestic tasks – to pass a certain point would be unholy, and Eric does not need to give the Lord more reason to damn his soul to hell. Besides, he was no idea where to start when it comes to making a Christmas feast. In mid-December he hires a maid – her name is Mary, and he vows to treat her far better than his family ever treated Edna.

He also thinks to find out where Edna has gotten to, but that train of thought leads him to remember Sheila. And, well, there are a multitude of memory lanes diverting from there. These paths are well trodden and tempting, but one more breakdown in front of Gerald and he fears the relationship will be unsalvageable. He wills himself to forget about Edna, and all that thought of her unlocks, and focus on the present. What he’s making with Gerald.

Mary is a success. She’s hardy and keeps Eric in check – keeps Gerald in check too, he thinks, though no one will say it outright. On Eric’s insistence she sleeps in Sheila’s old room and has full access to any place in the house she desires, so long as she provides warm meals periodically and doesn’t let the house fall into disarray. Gerald had scoffed at his proposal to treat a worker as an equal, but Eric swears he sees more amusement than irritation when Mary lectures him on the length of his trousers as he’s leaving to manage the factories.

Maybe Gerald is thinking of Sheila too. Or maybe it’s…

Eric talks to Mary as much as he can. He’s starting to get curious about the lives of working girls – of workers in general. He wonders if those crank writers his father so hated may have a point. Mary is a hard worker, skilled not just at labour but at conversation. They’re fast friends. She teaches him to make more than just the simple soups and meat/potato combinations they had lived off of for some weeks, and in return he teaches her chess. They play for hours while Gerald is away. She retires for the evening when he returns – Eric wonders why, and if she might notice when he gazes at him for too long, and what she thinks of the glint in his eye when their discussion comes to the blond man. If she recognises the sin, she’s quiet about it. Eric thanks his lucky stars.

She’s lived with them a month when Eric realises it’s the closest relationship he’s ever had. His best friend, a worker, and a female at that. He can’t find it in him to be ashamed.

The January morning is a mild one, the previous week’s near constant snowfall finally subsiding. He rises early and pads to the dining room, where Mary is sitting with a bowl of porridge, one more set out beside her. Eric slides in and takes up a spoon.

The room is filled with nothing put the sound of metal clanging against ceramic until Gerald comes to the door.

“Porridge?” he demands.

“Kitchen,” Mary replies with much the same tone. Gerald pulls a stern face, but doesn’t scold, and walks off in the right direction. As soon as he’s out of shot, she turns to Eric and grins.

“We’re domesticating him, you know,” she says in her Irish lilt. Warmth spreads through his chest, not entirely attributable to the porridge.

It might be happiness, he dares to think. A happiness he does not deserve, and from an extremely unconventional source, one that could get him ostracized or possibly imprisoned were outsiders to learn of it. His daily life, dining with the two people who mean the most to him, spending days with a friendly face and evenings with someone sacred to him, is too perfect.

Too perfect to last.

Mary has finished her bowl and is gazing at him expectantly. He sets the spoon down and hums as he clears his throat.

“Eric. It’s not really my station, but I wish to ask you something. A favour.”

He hates that she has to think of her station.

“I’m listening,” he says.

“I haven’t seen my Mother in 7 years.”

Eric’s stomach is sinking. “Ah. You want to leave?”

“Just for a time, to visit. It’s the first time I’ve been able to afford it. Her birthday is next Sunday.”

Some of the weight is lifted. “You’re asking permission to see your mother?”

“I am. Sorry, I thought-”

“No, no! It’s fine. Of course, you can. Gosh, of course. I’ll help you pack and make travel arrangements if you want.”

“I’ve, ah, arranged it all already. I intended to sneak away if you didn’t let me go. A cab is coming at 10 o’clock.”

He should probably be annoyed, but her bravery and obviously close relationship to her family stirs up nothing but affection and a little envy.

“I’d expect nothing less from you. Safe travels! And, uh, put in a good word with your mother for me, won’t you?”

“Oh, I will. I’ll tell her about the strangest, kindest boss I’ve ever had. I expect she’ll pray for you so often that you’ll be practically invincible for all coming days.”

At that, she trots off, almost colliding with Gerald as he re-enters the room bowl in hand.

“Where’s she rushing too?” he asks.

“Morning to you, too. Ireland.”

“Ireland?! What use is she in Ireland?” he splutters

“Plenty of use to her family, I suppose,” Eric chuckles and resumes eating as Gerald fills Mary’s vacant seat.

“You treat her as if she’s family. Better, even.”

“I treat her as a friend, as should you. From my experience, I wouldn’t much want to be treated like family.”

That silences him. For a moment, at least.

“But we pay her! Far above average rates, I might add.”

“The average rates are unjust. We pay Mary for her service, and I pay Mary for her companionship in kindness and empathy. Do you have friends, Gerald?”

He’s surprised at his own boldness, and even more taken aback by the furious blush painting Gerald’s cheeks.

“I do! I have many clients and business partners.”

“But friends? People you spend time with for the pleasure of being with them? Where money is a secondary or irrelevant factor?”

Gerald is flustered. That’s not something Eric has seen him do before, and he mentally adds it to the Gerald Collection in his mind.

“I mean… I say, uh… I don’t pay you, do I?”

It’s Eric’s turn to blush.

“No! No, you don’t, do you? Gosh. I’ve never thought of myself as your friend before.”

“I suppose I never really had either,” Gerald says coolly. “It seemed inappropriate before. I didn’t, uh, associate with, uh, drunks.”

Eric’s face falls. “But!” he adds. “You seem, uh, much better in that respect now. Ever since, well, you know.”

“Mary has helped me. The Irish know their way around drink.”

“Mary is to thank, is she? Perhaps she deserves a holiday after all.” His dry sarcasm makes Eric want to hit him, and Gerald must notice him twitch, because his voice lowers and softens considerably. “I’m grateful to her, really, if she’s the reason why you’re better now.”

“Well, perhaps it wasn’t entirely her.”

“Oh?”

“I could thank you too, Gerald.”

“Oh, stop,” he says in mock modesty.

“No, really!” Eric smiles sweetly at the man beside him, channelling the passion boiling up inside through snark. “Oh, _thank you,_ Mr Croft! Hero among men!”

“You are most welcome, Mr Birling!”

It’s almost gone too far now. The temperature is rising. Gerald is close, too close, and Eric’s vision is swimming and he’s going to sin. Gerald is playing along and he’s going to sin. Why is he playing along?

It’s too much. God, it’s too much, and Gerald is shining and he can’t risk ruining this perfection.

“I’ll, er, clear the table,” Eric says as he promptly stands, thoroughly shattering the mood.

\---

Eric can only hope he’s not ruined anything. He’s over-analysing, he’s sure. Gerald has no idea what their interaction does to him, and his riling him up was unintentional.

 _Maybe not entirely,_ a little voice says. To hear an internal monologue that isn’t soaked in self-depreciation is unfamiliar and off-putting. _He has sinned too. Perhaps he recognises temptation like you do._

He pushes it away before he can get cocky.

\---

Gerald doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves for work

He cleans the bowls, and the spoons.

\---

Gerald greets him when he returns from work, and nothing more.

Eric hopes he is not avoiding him. The night is especially dark, his worries especially deep.

He wonders if his mental state’s total dependence on Gerald’s approval might not be the ideal way to exist. But, he reasons, a man ought not to have such weak control of his emotions at all. Having gone this far, reliance the other man is really only the cream on top.

\---

It’s eerily easy to sink back into despair. Eric refrains from weeping, continuing his days along the framework they’d etched out, but without Mary filling the silence, the voices turn back to cruelty.

\---

Eric decides to make his father retrospectively proud and toughen up.

He can’t please Father outright, though, no, he has to twist it. He’s not going out to find a wife, oh no, in some ways the opposite. When his anxieties have finely crescendo’d and snapped, he resolves to just talk to Gerald, man to man. A war of words, if one will, to end this dancing.

He finds Gerald in the parlour, lighting up a smoke. It’s a habit Eric himself never really developed, his mouth being mostly too occupied by bottle or glass to have any time for a pipe. The thick stench of smoke and the burning prickle over his eyes as he approaches the man reminds him of countless childhood evenings with lessons from Father.

Gerald’s brow is creased, and he’s rocking himself slightly backwards and forth in the wooden-framed armchair. There’s a fire roaring in the hearth, a fruit of the chores Eric has picked up in Mary’s brief absence, and a chess board and pieces strewn across a low table.

Eric draws up a chair and gestures to the game.

“Will you play with me?” he asks. Gerald sighs, lowers his pipe and arranges the black pieces. Eric takes white.

Eric starts by moving a pawn to e4. Gerald defends with c5. He’s playing it safe.

White knight to f3. Black queen to c7. C3, e6, d4, d5.

“It’s been a while,” Gerald breathes.

“Since you played?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been playing with Mary.”

“Is she good?”

“A good match.”

“Hmph. If you beat me, I’ll have to beat her,” he laughs, miming a hitting motion. Eric scowls and turns back to the board. Takes a pawn of Gerald’s, then another after his weak retaliation. “In chess! I’ll have to beat her in chess! Really, Eric, I know by now that you’d skin me alive should I mistreat a worker.”

“As you’d deserve. But.. I didn’t just intend to talk about your chess ability. I meant, we haven’t spoken for a long while.”

“What do you mean, my good fellow? Why, just two days past we were discussing these ‘benefits’ that the Government has introduced. Money for the unemployed and the pregnant, wasn’t it?”

It was. It concocts a horrid mixture in Eric’s very stomach, knowing how that money could have helped, had the system arrived a little earlier, had he met Eva a little later. He takes another pawn, and in return Gerald’s king takes one of his. Ne5. Qxe5. Gerald’s move is showy, but bad practise. Eric conquers his queen with a white pawn. “Damn you,” Gerald curses.

He doesn’t stop there, capturing another pawn.

“Would you really see me damned, Gerald?” A bishop.

“Only so you’d be coming with me. The Inspector doomed us to fire and blood and anguish, no? What could that mean other than hell?” Another pawn, a knight. Gerald is in dire straits. Eric’s queen is closing in.

“If you’re doomed to fire and brimstone, you ought to enjoy life on this Earth as much as possible,” Eric says, moving his queen to f3. Gerald guards the king with a bishop.

“Mr Wilde wrote a book on the matter. If I recall, it did not work out too well for dear Dorian.”

Queen to h5. Gerald moves a pawn in a5 to a6, a totally inconsequential move. The hand that carries out the action is white and trembling.

Eric places his queen on f7.

“Checkmate!” he cries. Then, stillness.

Gerald isn’t responding. Eric is sure he is trying his best to avoid meeting his eyes. His gaze is moving frantically, to Eric’s hair, his throat, his lips, anything but eyes. It’s incomprehensible, Eric thinks, for Gerald to be so unsettled. Perhaps he has news. Bad news. That he wishes to break as softly as possible. He can hear Gerald breathing deeply through his nose.

“Whatever it is you wish to tell me, you can, you know,” Eric mutters.

“I fear I cannot.”

“I say you can.” A sigh.

“My father asked when I intend to marry Sheila.”

“Oh.”

Oh. Eric’s mind explodes with a million possibilities. Gerald wants them to find Sheila? His father wants to see her? His father wants him to wed?

“Quite.”

“Is he not aware that she’s… currently unavailable to you?”

“God no! Under what pretences do you think I have been permitted to live here?”

That does make sense. Croft Sr, and perhaps the entirety of Brumley assume Sheila resides with them. It’s not so unbelievable that she never leaves the house. Maybe they believe her to be pregnant, or Gerald to be controlling.

“Ah.”

He wants Gerald to speak, so he is quiet. He tries to keep his expression neutral. Despite the dread building inside. This is not the time to break down, not again, or Gerald is certain to snap and leave.

Although, he’s not sure Gerald would be able to snap right now. He looks more vulnerable than Eric has ever seen. Admittedly he was absent for most of his confession to the Inspector, but in retellings Gerald has described himself as honest but firm. That image is far from what Eric sees before him, a breaking man. A breaking man with watery eyes. His halo is dulling, his hair ruffled by his own grasping hands. The pipe lays forgotten on the floor. Eric hopes there will be no ash stain on the carpet.

“I realised, then, that I am not engaged. I can’t say why it never occurred to me before. I realised that my future, as a good businessman with a good wife and good children and good employees, is not within my grasp.”

“There are other businessmen with daughters, Gerald. You could simply spin a tale of Sheila being mad with grief over our parent’s death and ask your father to arrange another fiancée.”

“I did not wish to marry Sheila purely for business. She was beautiful and kind.”

Not so much to me, Eric thinks, in fact, she was spoiled rotten until the Inspector set her straight. Set us straight. He doubts that will comfort Gerald.

“There are many other girls. Gosh, Gerald, you could take your pick. You are handsome, well bred, well known. Your father is powerful and respected. You could have any town girl you wanted.”

Gerald’s fists are clenched on his thighs. His eyes flicker shut as he tips his head back. The fire pops loud in Eric’s ears.

“I don’t want any town girl.”

“A country girl, then, I’m sure your father has-”

“I don’t _want_ a country girl, either!” he exclaims. Then, softer, “Don’t you see, Eric?”

Eric thinks he sees, but equally he could have it completely wrong, and that’s too much of a risk to take.

“I don’t see. Tell me, please?”

“Damn you,” Gerald grunts, and suddenly Eric’s back is pressed against the firm armchair he’s sitting on, and Gerald’s all over him. He can feel Gerald so much, so much of him, his hands running over his sides and his lips firm against his own.

He’s instantly reminded of the first time, but now Gerald’s the one who started it so there’s no fear of being thrown aside and spat on. He’s been sober for a long time, he’s not delirious, and it’s as if his senses are heightened. Touch, at least, not so much anything else, given that his eyes are closed. His entire world is Gerald’s mouth, Gerald’s hands, Gerald’s hair, which his own hands have tangled themselves in. He’s fairly sure the world outside could end, and he’d be none the wiser.

Gerald pulls away and Eric panics, just for a second, his eyes flying open and searching desperately for Gerald. But he doesn’t stand or remove himself from Eric’s lap. He just pants, and then Eric’s cut off from anything other than the man on top of him once again, because Gerald’s mouth is on his neck and it’s the most he’s ever felt at once. His neck has only ever been touched before by tight, angry grasps during bar fights, and this is incomparable. He stops thinking so hard and just experiences, feeling as though his filthy guilty soul is merging with Gerald’s golden one.

He cups Gerald’s jaw and brings his face back up to his own, then presses their lips together more softly. The gentleness doesn’t last – before he knows it their tongues are intertwined and dancing. Eric has never ever ever felt like this with a girl. He thinks he may be ruined for life.

Eventually they’re both exhausted. They remain seated, foreheads pressed together, gulping for air. Eric feels each of Gerald’s in- and exhales as his own. He wonders if this is intimacy. He wonders if this is love, and how long he’ll burn in hell for it.

But how can he worry about hell? When sweet, sacred Gerald is right here with him, as wrecked as he is, his face flushed pink, his skin clammy, his cheeks wet with salt. The Lord is crying. Eric can’t dread hell when he’s already in paradise.

“We must stop doing this,” Eric whispers weakly. Gerald cracks into a thin smile.

“You started it first of all. Damn you,” he says.

“I’ll gladly take fire for this.”

“I think I will, too. I’ve felt like an abomination. But I’ll feel like that for you.”

Eric chuckles.

“You’ll get over it. We’ll have to hide it, though.”

“Naturally. From Mary, too?” Gerald asks. Eric hums in consideration.

“Maybe. I think she suspects already, but she hasn’t run off to the police.”

“We could always pay her off,” Gerald suggests earnestly. Eric’s heart swells. He rests his head on Gerald’s shoulder and presses a sweet kiss to the base of his neck.

“We could. Then we’ll at least have sanctuary here.”

“Mm. I wish I could sing of you to the whole town.”

“Whatever could you see in me, Mr Croft?” Eric tries to sound witty but is certain his insecurity is audible underneath. Gerald’s lips press against his forehead.

“Many things.”

“Why the change of heart, then, hm? What convinced you I’m worth breaking the law? I always worried you were repulsed by my being a man.”

“I could explain, but it might be faster to show you,” he says with a grin.

“Show me, then.”

He does.

\---

They go to bed together that night, Eric unwilling to leave Gerald’s side lest it all be a dream. They lay side by side.

Eric is exhausted, but a curiosity is tugging at the corners of his mind and it won’t let him rest.

“Please do tell me,” he begins.

“Hm?” Gerald is already half asleep.

“I worry. I worry that you’ll wake up tomorrow and regret everything and… I don’t know, you could report me and have me taken away, or kill me.”

“That would rather taint my reputation.”

“Gerald!”

“Alright, alright,” he says, sitting up. “I think I was raised to be hard-hearted. Women are to be possessed, yes? That’s what we’re told.”

“Mhm.”

“When I saw you in a bad state after the Inspector’s visit -hell, even before - I… I instantly cared about you. I wanted to see you live better. I thought it was brotherly, but now Sheila is gone - I have no reason to have such concern - yet if anything, it’s stronger.”  
“Brother’s don’t tend to…” Eric trails off, gesturing to the faint red marks coating his throat.

“Well, no. That - ah, well - those thoughts developed later. I didn’t know what to do with them. They’re sinful and unlawful, yes?”

“Quite.”

“But – well – my, er, keenness outbalances my reservations. And now it doesn’t matter to me, how strange this is. I just want to live with you and- well, you know. Even what with us both being men. That doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

“I’m glad. Gerald, I’m so glad,” he says, and finally sleep arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for kindly waiting so long. I've been so busy with school but now it's NaNoWriMo I'll try my best to update more regularly. Thanks so much for reading, comments and kudos are appreciated ^w^


	5. All Apologies

Eric will never get over having Gerald available to him. To open  his eyes and see him before anything else every morning is a novelty that never fades. And when Gerald’s arms are laced tightly over his chest, and he whispers ‘I never want this to end’ into his hair, he can almost believe it never will.

He’d spend all day every day with the man if he could, but Gerald has responsibilities at his father’s company. Eric has responsibilities too, with a business that technically belongs to him in his own Father’s absence, but it needs little overseeing. He hates to admit that his Father, for all his flaws, ran a functional business. And so he spends most days at home, filling out necessary paperwork and enjoying Mary’s company, until he hears the heavy wooden knock that indicates Gerald’s return.

\---

He’s awaiting that very knock when he hears a similar but different sound. It’s a knock alright, but far lighter and without the rhythm Gerald is accustomed to tapping out. He’d investigate the source himself were he not occupied in the study, skim-reading _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and choosing passages to memorise and recite to his lover at thematically appropriate times. It is not an affront to the fair treatment of all to ask his cohabiter, who happens to be a female and under his employ, to open the front door.

“Mary, would you be able to see who’s calling?”

“Is it not Gerald?” she shouts back.

“No! Gerald’s knocks aren’t like that at all.”

She rolls her eyes as she passes by the open-doored study. Eric turns his attention back to the book. He hears the door being pulled open, several sets of footsteps stepping into the house, and muffled, frantic conversation.

As man of the house, it’s his duty to investigate. He throws the book down to the desk and follows the sound to the entrance hall.

For the first time in – gosh, he thinks, a year, a year today! – the house contains more women than men. He notes Mary first, her familiar twirls of ginger hair and stocky frame. In front of her, on the side of the door, stand two more young ladies. They’re both well covered – wearing long skirts, large hats and unfamiliar sashes – but he’d recognise the taller one anywhere.

“Sheila?”

“Eric! What is the meaning of this?”

He tries to form words but none arrive. Here is Sheila, donned not in her lavish dresses, delicate makeup and precious jewels but a simple white shirt, purple skirt, and sash, which Eric now realises reads ‘Votes for Women’. Here is Sheila, back in the Birling household a year after her disappearance, greeting him not as family but with conflict.

“Eric, who’s this?” Mary asks, pointing at the unexpected guests in a manner that is certainly not her station. Perhaps she’s come to see the house as her own, and is not taking kindly to those who are, from her perspective, accusatory strangers.

“Eric,” Sheila repeats, as if he’s the one whose name most needs introducing, “why did this young woman answer the door? Is she your maid, your wife?” She strides across towards him and slaps his cheek. “Did the Inspector teach you nothing?!”

The assault stings, but he’s faced far worse. He stands just as he was before, face to face with his own sister, who is snarling up at him.

“Sheila…” says the third woman softly. Only then does Eric recognise her.

“Edna?” he exclaims. She blushes and retreats further behind the floppy summer hat.

“Sheila, Edna, Eric, Mary, the sodding Lord above at this rate,” Mary says as she pushes between the warring siblings. “Does anyone care to explain what’s going on?”

“She’s not my wife,” Eric says calmly. “She’s my friend and I happen to pay her to keep the house in order.”

“I should bloody well hope you do!” Sheila snaps, “And I should bloody well hope you’re not married, because if you were, I’d take your wife aside and tell her the rotten things you’ve done-”

“Sheila, we agreed to be polite,” Edna speaks. Sheila’s angry expression falls along with her held-up hands as she looks over to the shorter woman.

“Ah, quite right. Sorry, Edna.” Edna nods.

There’s a pause, which is interrupted by a familiar knock at the door. Eric takes it upon himself to answer.

          3 events occur concurrently as Gerald enters the house:

  1. Eric says ‘Good afternoon’ and shuts the door behind him.
  2. Gerald raises his eyebrows at the unaffectionate greeting before surveying the crowded room.
  3. Sheila shrieks.



“WHAT IS HE DOING HERE?” she cries, as Edna places her hands over her eyes.

“What am I- Eric, what is she doing here?” Gerald sputters.

“I don’t know, I was trying to find out before-” Eric starts, straining to be heard over Sheila’s furious rambling.

“Could everybody do me the kindness of being QUIET!” Mary interrupts. All mouths shut and eyes turn to her. “Thanks be. Now, could anyone explain what’s happening?”

Gerald and Sheila begin at once.

“I return back to- “

“Mary, we’ve never properly explained-“

Neither is intelligible. Edna uncovers her face, and Eric catches glimpse of all hope in her eyes dying like a blown-out candle. Mary raises her hand to silence them both, then gestures at Sheila, who exhales sharply and twitches her head.

“I return back to my childhood home one year after a life changing event to see how my brother has improved in light of having his rotten actions exposed, only to arrive to see he’s still treating women as beneath him. And, as if that isn’t enough of a grievance for my poor, tender heart to see, none other than my ex-fiancé steps in as if he owns the place, and has the nerve to ask what _I’m_ doing here, when it’s _my family’s_ house and he has no right, the pig, to-”

“I see. Now, Gerald?”

“Well – ah, a year ago – some time ago – there was this inspector – there was a girl – ah, it’s a complex tale. Perhaps we’d best sit down and discuss over a nice dinner?”

Sheila scowls, but removes her hat and places it on the hat-stand.

\---

Eric decides it’s his turn to cook. Gerald stands and watches in the corner as Eric puts potatoes on to boil. The meal will be nothing special, nothing compared to the delights Mary can make, but he feels he’s proving a point.

Is this how a wife feels when she cooks for her husband? His own Mother thought of herself as too classy to ever do such a thing. Could that be why his parents bickered so? Gerald’s eyes burn the back of his neck when he’s turned away and smoulder when their gazes meet.

“The apron over the suit is a dashing style,” Gerald chuckles. Eric stomps over and kisses him. And again. And again. “Uh- I hear- water-“ he gets out between pecks. The water in the pot is boiling over.

“Ah.” He reluctantly retreats and attends to the emergency.

\---

When the men enter the dining room, arms laden with hot plates of food, the three women are clustered at one end of the table, deep in conversation. Eric sets the meals down in front of them and takes a seat. Gerald sits opposite.

The trio take no notice of them. Gerald clears his throat.

“Ah.. Bon Appétit,” says Eric, clutching his cutlery.

They all begin to eat, but it isn’t long before the women have stopped in favour of carrying on their conversation. Eric couldn’t get a word in if he tried.

“I wonder how severely she’s cursing our names,” Gerald mutters.

“I am not cursing your name, Gerald! We are discussing female rights!” shouts Sheila, standing. Gerald turns red. Eric silently prays he’ll back down.

“I’m glad, and I’d be interested to hear, too, but do we not owe it to our friend Mary to explain our… connections?”

It’s a good move.  Sheila sinks back down and settles her napkin back over her front.

“Oh, quite, quite. Alright. Mary,” she turns to her, “exactly one year ago we were around this very table. The three of us and my and Eric’s parents.”

 “We were celebrating our engagement,” adds Gerald.

“I was drunk,” adds Eric.

“I was the maid,” adds Edna sheepishly.

“It was all very jolly and proper,” continues Sheila, “until there was a knock and a man came through. His name was Inspector Goole and he changed everything.”

“That’s quite dramatic, Sheila,” Gerald interrupts.

“No, she’s right,” Eric says. Gerald’s eyebrows raise.

“If you’re quite done…” Sheila tuts. “He told us about a girl. Eva Smith. She’d drunk disinfectant and died. And we were all responsible.” Her voice is quietening to a hoarse whisper. “My father had had her fired from his factory. I had had her fired from her new job at Milwards – I had thought she’d laughed at me. What a horrible brat I was!”

“You’re being awfully blunt about this,” says Gerald.

“I have to be, don’t I? How else is there to be? We have to admit responsibility.”

“I just think it’s, well, unsavoury.”

“Would you like to explain what you did, then?”

He clears his throat.

“I – ah – I came across her at the bar one night, looking awfully vulnerable and in need of-”

“He had her as his mistress for months and dropped her when it suited him. And then Eric… my bastard of a brother…”

His throat is impossibly tight, and his nose is burning, but he must confess his crimes.

“I went to a bar and got squiffy and went to bed with her. She, ah, may not have really wanted it.” They’re all staring at him and his cheeks are wetting. “We were at her lodgings and I threatened to make a row, so she let me in. It’s – ah – it’s hellish, but I don’t even really remember that first time. But we met again, and talked more, and eventually she said she was having a baby.”

He wishes Gerald was on his side of the table. He wishes Gerald could hold him right now, or at least hold his hand. Gerald, who’s guilty like him, where Sheila is only a little to blame, and Edna and Mary have done no wrong. Edna and Mary, who could easily have been Eva in a different circumstance. Hadn’t the Inspector said as much?

“I was in a state. We were both very worried. I – ah – I stole 50 pounds from my father and gave them to her. I didn’t love her,” his voice breaks, “but I did care. I thought it might be enough to make her be alright. But…”

“She wasn’t, clearly.” He’s grateful that Sheila cuts in, and does so with sympathy in her tone, though it’s certainly for Eva and not for him. “She went to our Mother’s charity committee, seeking help, calling herself Eva Birling. Well, Mother didn’t like that much. They threw her out. She had nowhere left to run.”

“She refused the money,” Eric states, crying now, but controlled – he’s had a lot of practise, after all. “She knew it was stolen and refused it.”

“She never did anything wrong, and we all killed her,” says Sheila decisively. A silence falls over them. Eric has never seen Mary look so uncomfortable.

“I have changed, though, I swear,” Eric says at last.

“Why should I believe you?” says Sheila.

“I haven’t drunk in months. Look, the port is untouched.” He gestures to the full bottle placed on the centre of the table. “And I’m on the way to significantly improving the working conditions of the Birling employees.”

“On the way to?”

“There’s a lot of competition,” he stumbles over his words. Sheila raises one eyebrow and goes to speak, but not before Mary does.

“He treats me very well. I’m paid better than any other girl in this town that I know. He lets me do most anything I could want to.”

“I don’t let you do anything! I don’t need to _let_ you. You’re my friend who I happen to pay to provide dinner sometimes and to keep the house in order.” Mary smiles.

“And Mr Croft isn’t so bad, either.”

“Yes,” Eric laughs at Gerald’s look of protest. “We’re working on it.”

Sheila looks unconvinced but doesn’t argue further. Instead she pats Edna’s shoulder lightly and stands.

“Well, thank you for dinner,” she says, before leaning in and whispering something into Mary’s ear that Eric can’t make out.

“Thank you kindly, but it really is alright here. Better than alright, even. And, I could stand up for myself if I needed to, you know.”

“Well, quite. I just find it so important that we women support one another. Say, is there a room we could take for the night?”

“Well, Mary has your old bedroom, but Mother’s is free.”

“Splendid. Well, good night!” she says brightly, nodding at Mary. With that, she departs, followed swiftly by Edna.

\---

He dries his eyes on the soft tablecloth.

Mary helps him clear the table, Gerald having skulked off shortly after their surprise guests (off to bed, Eric hopes, though whether or not they’ll sleep together tonight given the risk of his sister asking awkward questions is a question he hasn’t thought to ask himself). He’s nervous of how her opinion of him may have changed given the revelations, but he has to admit it’s only fair that she knows his past, and it’s her right to feel however she sees appropriate.

“Eric?” she says, as if reading his mind. “Was all that you said true?” He nods slowly.

“It was.”

“I’m not quite sure how to react. I wouldn’t expect such things from you.”

“Not anymore. I was a different man then.”

“Gerald. And, uh, you. The companionship, I suppose. It wasn’t something I had before.” Mary scrunches her nose.

“Gerald? It’s not really my place, but… well, he doesn’t seem the altruistic, brotherly type.”

“He… helped me out of a terrible position. He kept me out of the way of drink and the likes and led me on the path to becoming a more sensible man.”

“After all, he is a sensible man himself. Now, it’s your turn to teach him to be a kinder one,” she says as she leaves the room with the last of the dinnerplates, leaving Eric standing alone, a heap of tablecloth in his arms. He finds 2 corners and spreads it out like a sheet. A long strip of fabric to the ground.

He folds the cloth and returns it to its rightful storage place before returning to identify the fallen object.

_Votes for Women_

He scoops it up and runs his fingers over the material. It’s surprisingly well made, stitched carefully and neatly. He’s heard about women who wear such things, mainly about their incompetence at womanly tasks driving them to bitterness and hatred of men. If he remembers correctly, Sheila enjoyed sewing as a girl and was known to be quite skilful. Not only that, but her social position afforded her access to most any desirable man – gosh, she was close to marrying _Gerald_ himself, the lucky thing – so why would she align herself with such a violent movement? He resolves to ask when he returns the sash.

And, well, there’s no time like the present. Sash in hand, he bounds upstairs to their Mother’s former room. Should he knock? It would be polite, but she has already broken common courtesy by showing up at the house uninvited and without notice. Besides, there’s no reason she’d be doing anything unsightly in there. He knocks briefly and opens the door before a response can come.

Nothing could prepare him for what he sees.

Sheila is laying on the bed, gazing longingly and with great affection at a figure looming over her. The figure is small, compact, its hands cupped and halfway to bridging the distance to Sheila’s right cheek. At least, until Eric’s arrival processes. Then, both faces are pointed at him, Sheila’s the very picture of fury, the figure’s – Edna’s, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Eric’s eyes must be deceiving him. There is no possible way he is seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. Edna pinning Sheila to the bed, both of them flushed bright pink, their lips shining. He can’t believe it… Sheila, not on top?

“You pig!” Sheila yells. “You swine! Get out!”

Eric’s mouth is twisting into a grin.

“Gosh…” he breathes. There are footsteps running up behind him.

“What’s happening? Are you all alri- oh!” Mary stops as she surveys the scene. “Oh. You too, dear?”

“’You _too_ ’?!” Eric whips his head around to Mary and furrows his brows.

“I know what young men get up to these days,” she says.

“Women, too,” says Edna, climbing off of Sheila and sitting beside her on the bed. Sheila pulls herself up.

“Eric? What’s all this?” Gerald arrives, out of breath. There is a veritable crowd forming by the bedroom door.

“Would you all be so kind as to _get out?”_ hisses Sheila.

“Not unless someone explains what on Earth caused all that ruckus!” Gerald says. Mary claps his shoulder.

“These girls are homosexuals too!” rejoices Mary.

“They’re… wait, ‘ _too’?”_

She laughs, while Sheila drones on: _getoutgetoutgetoutgetout._

“You young’uns do live freely. Me, I’m not so interested in man nor woman. What you all get up to is of no concern to me. And besides,” she leans in to Gerald’s ear, “I see the way you look at our Eric. My, my.”

Gerald is pale as a sheet. Eric feels slightly dazed and isn’t sure whether to laugh or scream. A strangled cry tears through his throat.

“Eric!” Sheila says, finally breaking her moaning metronome. “What was that for?”

“Sorry,” he says weakly, “only this is all rather a lot to take in. You, Sheila Birling, my very own sister, being kissed and not being the one doing the kissing?”

“You bastard!”

“You can hardly talk, Eric,” says Gerald offhandedly, his gaze still out of focus. “Perhaps submissiveness runs in the Birling blood.”

Mary giggles, only to get an icy glare from Sheila.

“I’ll, aha, I’ll leave you four to, aha, discuss this family business,” she blurts, and leaves, still barely muffling choked out laughs with one hand clamped hard over her mouth.

“Sheila, you’re clearly… intimate… with Edna. But!” Eric’s voice rises as Sheila tries to interrupt. “That’s not an issue! Gerald and I are as well.” Sheila looks horrified. For one horrible moment, Eric remembers that very same expression on her face when the Inspector revealed his crimes.

“My brother and my ex-fiancé?” she says.

“My sister and my ex-maid!” he retorts. She cracks a smile, like the sun breaking through thick cloud.

“You dunce boys! You fools! Why didn’t you just say?” she says, rearranging her skirt over her knees. “What are you doing still in Brumley?”

“What?”

“Why haven’t you come to London yet?”

“You’re in London?” asks Gerald incredulously.

“Yes, yes, there’s all sorts in London! I suspect the police are a little heavier on our type in the Capital, but we get by together. Besides, we suffragettes are hunted down regardless of who we associate with.”

“Ah, yes, this suffragette business. What’s it all about, Sheila? Why would you turn to such a dirty thing?” Eric says. Although, now he truly thinks about it, his earlier pondering of why Sheila would be against men may have just been explained. He suddenly remembers the sash in his hand and holds in up.

“Votes for Women,” Gerald reads. “I was under the impression – I’ve heard it said – well, do women really have the disposition to vote?”

“Let me ask you something in return,” pipes up Edna in her soft, low voice. “Why should two men such as you, who have done terrible and cruel things, vote, while upstanding women such as Sheila, who admits to her past wrongs, and Mary, cannot?”

Neither man has a response. Sheila looks sickeningly smug.

“Quite right,” she says. “Most any man can vote. But women, who are subject to all the same fares and much the same labour, cannot. How can that be justified?”

Eric pictures Mary, more knowledgeable and engaging than many of the old business partners he remembers his Father sitting round in the parlour and drinking with. He imagines them having a say in the running of the country, having never wanted or suffered in their lives, while Mary and Edna and Eva have no voice. It isn’t pleasing to him.

“Gosh, Gerald, I do think Sheila’s right,” he says.

“Hmph,” comes Gerald’s reply.

\---

They decide to leave Sheila and Edna be, lest they devour Gerald’s face in a flurry of feminist rage.

Eric lays in Gerald’s arms, as usual, head on his chest, and listens to the steady beating of the other man’s heart. He must admit, Gerald can be an obnoxious ass in front of other people, but here, in the privacy of each other’s company, alone in their room, he is nothing but gentle and sweet. The soft kisses pressed into Eric’s hair, neck, shoulders, speak not of hard-headedness and business, but of a softer man underneath, poetry in holy commandments. Some part of him wishes Gerald would show this side to the people around them. A small but loud part, however, is glad that this is reserved solely for him. Can he handle the burning green envy if his Gerald is to be shared, if it means the world sees him as he deserves?

“What are you thinking about?” whispers Gerald into the darkness.

“Hm?”

“It’s as if your deep philosophising is itching the edges of my own brain,” he says. Eric wonders what it would take for their two minds to merge into one.

“I think Sheila may be right,” he says. “Right about women. Why shouldn’t they vote? Why shouldn’t they be equal to us?”

“You really think that?” Gerald questions.

“You don’t?”

“I- uh… - it’s a difficult concept for me to understand. But if you think so, I’ll have to consider it.”

“We’ll have to purchase some books. I’m sure Sheila will instruct us which.” Gerald groans. “I’ve been thinking about… uh…”

“Hm?”

“Well, the Inspector-“

“You think about that night?”

“Yes! Frequently. You don’t?”

“I try my best not to,” says Gerald, as if in pain.

“Well… Father thought he was a Socialist. But he made fantastic points about workers, and our responsibilities as privileged young men. And I’ve been thinking… well, if standing up for the likes of Edna and Mary makes me a Socialist, I’d rather be that than whatever my Father was.”

Gerald runs a warm hand through Eric’s hair.

“I’ll also think about that.”

“Sheila’s bound to have recommendations on that topic as well,” says Eric through a yawn. They descend into comfortable, sleepy quiet.

\---

“Remember: it’s Mary Wollstonecraft. W-O-L-L-stone-craft,” repeats Sheila, as she and Edna tie the ribbons on their hats.

“Yes, I remembered the first time,” Eric says. Sheila smiles like a child.

“Good, good! Oh, I’m so glad you two are joining the cause. How exciting!”

“We’re thinking about it,” emphasises Gerald.

“Quite, quite. Well, goodbye, brother, Gerald, Mary,” she twitters, kissing each of Mary’s cheeks daintily. “Don’t forget to write! I gave you the address: 3-2-5-”

“Yes, Sheila, we heard.”

“Quite! Well, ta ta! Cheerio!” she says, bounding out of the house.

“Goodbye,” says Edna, and follows her. Mary watches them travel down the path to the cab before slamming the door shut.

“That was quite the week!” she says.

“It was,” confirms Gerald. “April always seems to bring intensity to our lives.”

“It does. Can you imagine what April 1914 may bring? 1915?”

Eric thinks of spending April after April with Gerald beside him. Finally, thoughts of fire and blood and anguish are far from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway there !!


	6. Feelings

Eric hunts down the literature that Sheila recommended, securing some from more underground sources than he’d like to admit. He pours over them in the study, or the garden on sunny afternoons when the rain holds off, which is growing more and more frequent as the weeks pass. De Cleyre, Marx Aveling, Perkins Gilman, Goldman, Zetkin, Zimmern, Twain, Rüling, Carpenter, Montefiore. He learns there are many like him, those with an appreciation for the same sex. He learns there are people writing for their liberation. He begins to understand himself as an owner of means of production, and where that places him in societal justice. He sees where women, workers and war fit perfectly into these grand, worldwide movements, as if divinely crafted. He discusses with Mary over chess. He whispers all about what he’s learning to Gerald as they drift off at night, and slowly he grunts less and asks questions more. Eventually the conversation is not limited to half-asleep chatter, but to dignified debates in the study or at the dinner table.

In early June the two of them take a trip to London under the guise of business. It’s a queer sight-seeing tour, if one will, and they hide their faces under their hats or behind their jackets as they follow Sheila’s map, sent to them via letter some days previously, down narrow alleyways and away from the huge London crowds. Eric is delighted, not just at the vibrancy of the many people they come across or the comfort of existing within a community, but also at how Gerald is acting. He’s relaxed and loose, smiling pleasantly at those who pass them at The Cave of the Golden Calf. In Molly Houses he is even more open, talking loudly to anyone who will listen. Eric himself is somewhat overwhelmed, struggling to make out any words at all in the lively taverns, but he swears he senses warmth in Gerald’s tone.

When they return to Brumley, at least for a week or so, Gerald does not walk around the house so much as glide, caressing Eric’s face and singing lyrical compliments whenever their paths cross.

Gerald may say:

“Your eyes are nothing like the sun, for the sun I cannot bare to look at, whilst your eyes I cannot bare to look away from.”

To which Eric might say:

“You are my God.”

Eric might say it, were he not caught by such surprise on each occasion and were his tongue not to twist so terribly. But he is, and it does, so his worship is kept to subtext and physicality.

\---

The carefree spell is broken mid-July. Eric notices the sudden drop in Gerald’s spirits as he would notice a pain in his own arm, and it hurts him just as much, if not more.

Gerald returns home later than expected one evening with a face like stone and a voice just as grey. There is no lively conversation at dinner. Mary shoots concerned looks to Eric throughout, which he cannot reciprocate, what with Gerald staring unfailingly at him, although he appears to be looking through him rather than at him.

“What are you thinking about?” Eric tries as soon as Mary leaves to clear away. He goes unheard.

Gerald holds him in a vice-grip that night.

\---

“Please,” Eric pleads, some days later, when they are resting together in the parlour, “whatever is troubling you so, tell me. I shan’t be cross.” It is the truth. His mind as suggested many possibilities to him, from an(other) affair to a sudden realisation of heterosexuality, or perhaps both, another Daisy, whom he has realised he loves more thoroughly than and incomparably compared to Eric. That is the worst scenario he is able to conjure. He prays it is not the case and tells himself that anything else is not so bad after all.

Gerald takes a mindless drag of his pipe. Eric is willing to plead again, to beg, on his hands and knees if needs be. But finally, Gerald speaks.

“My father,” he begins, before trailing off.

“Your father?”

“My father,” he repeats, “has come down with a sickness.”

Eric’s chest clenches. Gerald very rarely talks about his father – Eric is unsure of his opinions on the man. He personally considers him cruel, the exact type that the many authors he has read argue against, and Gerald has been thus far receptive of those teachings. Yet there’s still a possibility that, by merit of his upper-class upbringing, he feels a sense of loyalty to the man. Eric is unsure what to say.

“Ah,” is what he decides on after a pause.

“Indeed. He coughs terribly and complains of weakness in his body. That is not the troubling part,” Gerald continues, and Eric notes that perhaps his filial affection is lacking. “He called me to the Croft house a few nights ago. We had dinner.” Eric recalls Gerald’s uncharacteristically late return on what must have been the evening in question and nods. “He said to me- he told me- that he wishes to see me married. That I must marry before he passes, so he can have assurance on the future of his name and the company.”

Warm relief floods Eric’s entire body before cold dread spikes back. For a moment he had forgotten that their relationship is completely unlawful as it is now, so their marriage is beyond impossible.

It’s a terrible situation. He thinks of all that Gerald could lose should he disrespect his father: his name, his inheritance, respect in the town and in business. He has been rather anticipating Gerald overtaking his family’s factories, hoping to merge them with those which are technically his and furthering the bounds he has been making to bring justice to his workers. Crofts has far greater reach than Birlings – they’ve expanded far beyond textiles into arms and munitions - for him to treat his employees well is an outlier, just a benevolent capitalist seeing people as people. For Gerald to introduce the same rights and benefits could set a wider example in the industry and bring positive change to thousands.

Now is not the time to be selfish. What does his own happiness, his carefree lifestyle, his joy at having Gerald be his alone matter when the wellbeing of Brumley’s working class is at stake?

He has been silent for too long. Gerald is staring absently at the floor, pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

“If you choose to honour your father’s wishes,” Eric says, and Gerald’s head perks up, “and marry a girl, I will not hold it against you. I will not hold you to the homosexual lifestyle. You can marry and provide for a family, and I will never curse your name. I couldn’t bring myself to.”

“I appreciate that, but it is irrelevant. I could not do such a thing.”

“Are you not still engaged to Sheila? We could write to her.” Gerald hums, but his lips soon return to a frown.

“She will almost certainly refuse.” Eric knows this is true but makes a mental note to try anyway.

“Mary? If you made it clear it was simply for convenience,” he suggests.

“I think my Father would rather I presented you as my betrothed than an older, working woman.”

“Well, Sheila is my sister. I could wear a wig and a thick veil.” He means it as a joke but sees genuine consideration in Gerald’s eyes as he laughs.

“You know, with your feminine, slight frame, that might just work,” he laughs. Eric puts on a scowl.

“How can you be so cruel to me?” he cries in mock hurt. “When I have just expressed my willingness to give up this, which brings me such joy, for the sake of your relationship with Daddy Croft?”

He’s joking, once again, but perhaps Gerald is not in the mindset to separate the humorous from the sincere, as he clasps his hand over Eric’s, resting on the chair’s arm, and looks into his eyes with genuine intensity.

“Not cruel, never cruel! I am just so desperate for us to remain as we are. I realise it would be foolish to risk my honour and inheritance – don’t think of me as selfish, please – in fact, I suspect you want my inherited factories for your Socialist ideas – well, to forgo that would be foolish, yes, but I would for you.”

The words are the most intense Eric has ever heard from Gerald’s lips, and they fire up previously undiscovered feelings inside him. There’s this soaring pride in the knowledge that he alone is so valuable to someone, so valuable to a man who himself is valuable to him. It’s that very value that is forcing him to push onwards, to reject the notion that Gerald has presented.

“You could easily marry a woman and forget about me,” Eric says.

“Why would you have me so tortured? Have yourself so tortured?”

Gerald should know how easy Eric finds it to discard himself when it comes to Gerald’s wellbeing. Still, he almost says ‘You could easily marry a woman and meet with me Monday to Friday and the occasional weekend under the guise of work’, but the morals he’s learnt from the books he’s read, alongside Gerald’s history of affairs and the consequences thereof stop him. For that situation to be at all palatable to either of them, the woman would have to consent to the arrangement, and, well, what well-respecting woman would agree to accommodate her husband to be unfaithful, especially homosexually unfaithful?

A lesbian might, he thinks. Which brings them full circle.

“I would not. But, I would not have your father tortured either.” Gerald frowns at that. “I would not have us tortured at the hands of your father, I mean,” Eric adds. “I will write to Sheila.”

\---

_My dearest Sister, Sheila Birling,_

_How is life in the capital? I can only imagine the bustling crowds are far from our quiet town of Brumley. Life here is treating me well – the air is clean, as I’m sure you recall, though perhaps with your long time in the big city you have forgotten its pure taste. Indeed, your last return visit did not last long enough for you to truly appreciate the sweet cleanliness._

_Why not, then, return for a short while? Invited and welcomed, unlike your last ~~uncalled for~~ unexpected arrival. Gerald and I have a proposal for you. Edna is welcome too, of course._

_Best wishes,_

_Your caring Brother,_

_Eric Birling_

_\---_

_Eric,_

_I see past your flaccid attempts at deception. Write to me the proposal and we shall consider travelling down._

_Sheila Birling_

_\---_

_To Sheila Birling, sister mine,_

_You advised me to read much literature on the unity of all those oppressed and discarded in our society. I ask you now to recall the position in society shared by the two of us, by our darlings too, and to listen to my request._

_Gerald’s father wishes for him to marry. The old man is sick and weakly, wanting to see his son secured before he passes on. We fear that Gerald’s failure to do so will result in his exclusion from his father’s inheritance. Inheritance, for example, of great funds, and of many factories employing many workers. With full control of these factories, and following your educated and generous advice, Gerald could greatly improve the material conditions for workers under his employ. That would be but the beginning of our contribution to the movement. Alas, all rests on Gerald’s father seeing him wed._

_You were engaged to him. Would you consider returning to Brumley for a short time and fulfilling that betrothal? He would not hold you to fulfil any ‘wifely’ duties – believe me – and you may even receive a part of the inheritance as a welcome to the Croft family._

_Your doting Brother,_

_Eric Birling_

_\---_

_No._

  * _Sheila Birling_



_\---_

“It was worth a try, I suppose,” says Eric, throwing the short, blunt letter off over the side of the bed where they are laying together, hand in hand.

“It was never likely to succeed anyway,” adds Gerald.

“Yes, alright,” he says, slightly offended. “What else is there to do, then?”

“I don’t know.”

They lay in contemplative silence.

“I wonder where I could buy a hairpiece? Surely I could disguise myself as my own sister.”

“Not really. Your shoulders are far too broad.”

“Oh, first I’m slender, now broad?”

“My father has a keen eye for women.”

“Had. Is he not half-dead?”

“Unfortunately, he retains a functional sense of sight.”

They fall into quiet once more. Gerald is brushing his thumb absentmindedly over Eric’s knuckles. “We could just wait for him to die. Hell, we could speed it up,” he says in a low voice.

“Gerald! You’re not suggesting-”

“Not murder! Nothing illegal – although, that doesn’t often stop us when our hearts are set on something – no, not murder. I could, perhaps, wear him down.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” says Eric.

“Well, I could say there’s been a delay, and Sheila, my fiancée, is stuck abroad, perhaps in India, with an aunt, where she had been sent to recover from the sudden and tragic loss of her parents. The weather at sea is terrible and for her to voyage now would be far too dangerous – of course, she’s understandably reluctant to travel by boat as it is, so the slightest risk of her own death in the ocean sends her hysterical. Then, when that is no longer believable, I will say she has returned, but remains distant and disturbed – shocked by the vastness of the deep blue sea which so cruelly stole her mother and father. She is eager to marry but can scarcely leave bed or dress without succumbing to terrible trembles or a fever. I and the maids are nursing her back to health, but it is a long and arduous process,” he finished, a proud expression painting his features brightly.

“And when she is nursed back to health?”

“My father will be dead long before Sheila is recovered.”

Eric considers this.

“It could work, if you believe yourself capable of maintaining a falsehood so long.”

“It will be no issue. I don’t visit my father often, what with my ‘being a hard-headed businessman’ act, and it’s not as if he will gain information on the circumstances from anyone from me, so there is no chance of conflicting accounts.”

“Then by all means, try. I just struggle to understand why you’d go to such lengths for something as insignificant as…” Eric’s voice trails off as he realises Gerald is listening intently.

“Go on, something as insignificant as…?”

“As staying… with me,” Eric chokes out.

“Oh, Eric. Insignificant? How can you believe such a thing? You mean the world to me.”

“I cannot understand why. I am nothing, and you are everything. You are practical, hardworking, resilient, sweet to me-”

“You, Eric, have strong morals, are beautiful as the sunrise-”

“I am a horrid drunk and I killed an innocent woman,” he insists.

“Perhaps once, but no longer. You have taken responsibility, you’ve changed, you’ve encouraged me to accept my responsibility too. You are a good man, Eric.”

“I ruined a woman’s life and now she haunts my dreams,” he confesses at last, squeezing his eyes tight shut as the images that appear in his nightmares swirl in the darkness behind his eyelids. Eva reaches out to him, only to collapse into her disinfectant-poisoned corpse whenever he attempts to approach. She sings a soft lullaby, cradling a bundle of blankets in her arms, but when he leans over to see the child’s face the singing devolves into animalistic cries and screams. And it’s his fault, he knows, he accepts deep within, yet it’s so difficult to comprehend, to have had such a profound and deadly effect on another soul. He’s drowning. There is cold water filling his lungs.

“Eric,” Gerald’s voice calls out to him from above the surface, “from now on, see me in your dreams instead. We all share in our guilt, and we all can do nothing but work to make up for it. Your parents paid with their lives, with fire and blood and anguish. Sheila is paying back with bettering the world. We will do so too, I promise. So please, right now, and when you sleep, think of only me.”

“I am repulsive, ungodly, and you are my saviour,” he states.

“Let me prove my love for you,” Gerald replies, and kisses him. He makes up for Eric’s limp form by supporting his full weight, pushing and holding him up against the wooden headboard. Eric finally kisses back, but there’s little fight, no qualms about who is leading. Gerald’s grasping hands find his tie and tug at the knot, loosening it until it falls apart in his grip. He then turns attention to his own, before tossing both off the bed to the floor to rest alongside Sheila’s letter. Next comes their shirts – Gerald undoes his own button-by-button and shirks it off his shoulders. He is less polite with Eric’s, pulling mercilessly until it comes away, almost certainly damaged. All the while Eric remains in a daze, his own hands tangled uselessly in Gerald’s soft blond hair.

He’s suddenly made very aware of his entire body as he feels Gerald’s hands fiddle with his belt buckle. In the months since Gerald’s confession they’ve engaged in – things – but never – that. Eric begins to wonder what Gerald’s intentions are. Gerald catches on to his shift in mindset.

“If you want to,” he says, wetting his lips, “I want to.”

“I want to,” Eric replies firmly. He’s nervous – unsure, even, of how exactly it all works, for men to be together – but he trusts Gerald wholeheartedly. Gerald must have learnt a thing or two from his many conversations during their trip to London. “I want to!” he says again, and Gerald’s smile is radiant as he pulls down Eric’s trousers with one fell swoop.


	7. Strawberry Fields Forever

“Father’s dead,” announces Gerald as he steps into the house one fine late-summer evening.

“Pardon?”

“Father’s dead.”

He disappears swiftly upstairs, returns in a black suit and tie, and leaves wordlessly as suddenly as he’d arrived.

\---

“Would you like to talk about it?” Eric prompts in bed that night, arms wrapped around Gerald, fingers tracing loose shapes onto his back. “I’ve lost parents too.”

“I fear the more I talk about it, the more I’ll realise the pain he brought to many people. I intend to leave the Father I thought I had, when I was a boy, alive as a childhood memory. It’s the man I came to know as I aged who is dead.”

“However you most like to think about it.”

“He never did see me wed,” Gerald chuckles.

“Shall I write Sheila the good news?” suggests Eric, but Gerald’s mind is too far adrift for him to hear.

“Think of all those killed whilst working in the factories, never seeing their loved ones again, never seeing their children marry. It seems we are all one in death.”

“And in life too, soon. I assume those factories are yours now?”

“There will be arrangements to make and papers to organise over the next weeks, but yes, they shall be mine alone.”

“Birlings and Crofts finally united. My own father would be proud,” Eric says dreamily, as his eyes sink closed.

\---

The process of merging their two companies reminds Eric why he never passionately followed in the family business. He finds it tedious and mind-numbing to sit in Gerald’s father’s old office for so long, but by September, at last, the textiles and munitions factories are officially shared by the two of them. In an ideal world, Eric thinks, we would have just married and shared all our possessions that way, but the world is not ideal at all.

Gosh, he thinks, as he flicks through the seemingly endless piles of paper they’ve accumulated through the process. I own, just, so much capital, it’s quite nauseating.

“Fantastic. What now?” he asks.

“Well,” says Gerald from across the table, assuming a stance and tone Eric can only assume is expected during business negotiations, “As – ahem, business partners – we may begin to make decisions on the future of our company.”

“I see. Right, decision one: workers’ rights. We make them good,” suggests Eric.

“Agreed. Do you know how to?”

“Ah… well, I suppose it’s about what the workers want. Therefore, I say we pay the factories a visit and ask them.”

Gerald makes a note on the paper on the table in front of him.

“Noted. Next: our products. Are we satisfied with textiles and munitions?” asks Gerald.

“What are the munitions for? I thought – well, Father always said there wasn’t going to be a war.”

“My father must have thought otherwise. Europe is restless – there are all sorts of treaties, all sorts of alliances, all sorts of grievances. I understand why he expected something to snap soon,” says Gerald darkly.

“Well, we must hope not, but in case, I suppose munitions factories would be in high demand,” Eric ponders.

“It would be good to defend Britain, if Britain needed defending.”

“And should workers rise against the ruling class, we can supply them with arms.”

“Eric!” Gerald exclaims, and he wonders if he’s gone too far. “What are you, some kind of Communist?”

“No! It’s only that I’ve read a lot about – well, there’s all these concepts of- well, I’ve told you! ‘Workers of the world, unite!’ and the likes.”

“We’re not workers,” Gerald says. “Besides, if war were to break out, we would be fighting for our country, which is mostly workers. Therefore, we would be fighting for workers.”

Eric considers this. Something doesn’t seem quite right, but he pays it no mind. He knows Gerald can be trusted and can’t bring himself to think otherwise.

\---

They realise that two upper-middle class men may scare the workers and keep them from speaking their true mind, so they dress to disguise themselves among the factory’s crowds (Eric in clothes once reserved for pub haunts where he did not want to be recognised, Gerald in clothes that are of no less quality than his usual attire, only slightly less well fitted) and agree to tour separately, each handling their own father’s old workers.

It’s a cold, dark morning when Eric finally strolls up to the familiar gates. The sun seems to be struggling to rise past the slimmest slither of the horizon, proving that Autumn has suddenly fallen upon them. The factory’s inside is no complement to the gloomy outdoors, being mostly white and brightly lit, filled wall to wall with huge machines and women working them, but utterly lacking the vibrancy one might expect of a place with such movement.

He’s been here before, of course, worked here for a few years back before the Inspector called, but he recognises barely a single face. Father did always say the girls had a quick turnover rate: perhaps he hadn’t intended it to sound so sinister, but knowing what he knows about Eva’s situation, he can’t help but wonder how many others fell through similar cracks. He pulls the thought away from the emotional part of his brain, saving it instead as a line of inquiry to ask the workers about.

It’s plainly obvious that he stands out here purely by merit of being a man. Still, if he doesn’t recognise many people, there’s a hopeful possibility that they won’t recognise him either. He pulls his cap as far over his face as he can without raising suspicion and approaches the first woman on his left.

\---

Most of them don’t have much to say. He can’t blame them: looking at their faces, he can see their exhaustion, their desperation to stay on task no matter how tedious or repetitive. Some want to know – asking in respectful but sharp tones - where he’s from and why he’s prying. He eventually learns to mention the local union, and then he’s getting somewhere. Several tell him to talk to Molly. At last, he finds her.

Molly is, on first glance, unassuming. Her light brown hair is pinned back in a neat bun, her apron off-white but without wrinkles. She catches Eric’s eye as he approaches but swiftly breaks contact, continuing her work. She stops only when Eric clears his throat in front of her.

“Sir?” she says.

“Molly?” he replies.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m here from the Brumley Worker’s Union-”

“Oh? I’m sorry, Mr Birling, but I don’t understand why a businessman like yourself would be representing such an organization.”

Ah.

He hadn’t expected this. Now that he’s looking closer, she does seem vaguely familiar. She must remember him from his time training under his father.

The girls around them are trying, and failing, to watch without being noticed. This won’t do.

“Ah… well…” he trails off, noticing the stairs leading up to a private office looking over the workspace. “In that case, would you be so kind as to come with me to the office?”

“Certainly, sir.”

He leads the way, her following a pace and a half behind. He holds the door open for her as she enters. It locks shut with a soft click. When he turns, she’s standing with her arms crossed.

“Look, sir, if you’re wanting sexual favours, just sack me now, because I won’t do it-” she starts. Horror stabs Eric’s stomach like poison.

“No, it’s not like that at all!”

“Then if it’s about the business with Eva, then it’s like I told your father-”

Another painful blow to his guts. This conversation is following a ragged path. He raises his hands in a motion requesting her to stop talking. She obliges.

“Hold on, just for one moment. Firstly, I assure you, I am absolutely not looking for sex. Why… would you think such a thing?”

“Well, Mr Birling senior was a handsy sort-”

“Alright! Alright.”

He always thought his Father somewhat resembled a slug, but never knew he was as slimy as one. He pictures his skeleton, deep in the ocean, and is reassured.

Molly’s face is neutral, annoyed, even. “Secondly,” he says, and takes a deep breath. “You said Eva?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Eva Smith. She and I led the strike, God, three years ago. But you know this, of course. And you know she killed herself last year. I’ve admitted defeat, so there’s no need to punish me for the whole thing, your father already did so.”

It’s almost too much for Eric to process. He clenches his eyes shut, deep in concentration, and runs his hand up his forehead to his hair. He grabs his cap and throws it across the room onto the desk. He misses; it falls to the floor. Molly doesn’t watch its journey.

He decides to start small.

“My father punished you?”

“Docked a month’s wages.” Eric’s eyes widen.

“That must have been terrible.”

“I almost starved.”

“But you didn’t?”

“Obviously. The other women helped me. Helped Eva, too, when she was let go.”

So they have a strong community, strong bonds, Eric thinks. He doesn’t know why that surprises him. His only experience of working relationships has been competition and showing off. Such is the hard-headed businessman’s way – no time nor room for personal connection.

“I’m glad, truly. Please, remind me, what was it that he punished you for?”

“Asking for 25 shillings a week,” she states.

“And- ah- you said you had been defeated, but if you were to be paid 25 shillings now, would that be… enough?” he asks hesitantly.

“We probably wouldn’t starve then,” she says matter-of-factly.

“But what about to live comfortably? How would life be with, say, 40 shillings a week?” he suggests. She looks unamused.

“Why would you ask such a thing? We’d live quite well, I expect. But who would pay simple factory girls so much? I know what you lot think of us.”

Eric fiddles with his collar.

“Listen, please,” he says in a hushed tone, moving closer to her in the least threatening way he can manage. “I know what my Father was like, what I was like when he was around. But he’s dead now.”

“Oh, my condole-“

“No, listen. I want his treatment of workers to have died with him. I want you, and all the other women working here, to have good and happy lives. It is the least I can do to make up for the suffering my Father caused- that I myself caused. I understand if you don’t believe me, but I want to prove it to you, and I would like for people like you to advise me on how I can help my workers most.”

She doesn’t fall to her knees in sobbing thanks. Her eyes aren’t even a little wet. But her face has softened somehow. He hopes he might have convinced her.

“Any increase in wages would be greatly appreciated, I’m sure,” she says at last. Eric’s heart feels a little lighter, but there’s one thing still troubling his mind. If he’s not misunderstanding, and he doesn’t think he is, then Molly knows that he knows that Eva’s death was linked to the Birling family, at least to his Father. Her mentioning of Eva certainly implies that she knows it’s a topic frequently on his mind. But how?

He’s desperate to ask, but feels the progress he’s made is enough for one day.

“Thank you very much, Molly. I’d like to talk further soon, but for now, please feel free to go back to what you were doing before I so rudely interrupted.”

“Thanks, sir,” she says, stepping out of the office as he holds the door open. “Oh, and one last thing.”

“Yes?”

She leans in close to his ear and hisses.

“I will never, ever forgive you for what you did to Eva Smith.”

Molly smiles pleasantly and descends back down to her station.

\---

“It just doesn’t sit right with me,” Eric sighs.

He’s starting to wonder if he’ll ever know Gerald in places other than bed or a negotiating table again. It seems they’re always either pouring over papers spread across the wooden surface of a desk or nestled softly against each other’s skin, and never anywhere in between.

“Even 30 shillings would be exorbitant, darling, far above the other rates around here. 40 is, well, unimaginable!”

“No affection during business, remember!” Eric reminds his lover. “You say that, but 40 or 50 or 1000 shillings was always imaginable for our fathers, hm? I just can’t understand why they should produce so much and receive so little. Why do we get the fruits of their labour?”

“Well… uh… we’re the ones employing them,” Gerald stutters.

“And they’re the ones working to make what we sell. There’s no profit without them. They only work for less than what they create because the other option is destitution.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“A fair split of profits. They work physically, producing our wares, we work ensuring the smooth distribution of those wares. All essential roles. At the end of the week, profits are distributed evenly to all workers, us included.”

“That’s madness.”

“Higher output with lead directly to higher wages, inspiring everyone one of us to work harder. Because there is no ‘us’ and ‘them’, Gerald – it’s just ‘us’, all working for the same wage, all working as part of humanity, all bees in a hive, sharing our honey.”

“Eric, you’re speaking like a Crank.”

“Even that distribution sits poorly with me- have you seen those girls’ hands? Imagined how tired their feet must be, while we may sit or lounge all day? But I do understand we have a certain reputation to upkeep in, ah, the world of businessmen.”

“Now that I do agree with.”

“But Gerald, it’s not as if we have nothing saved up. I know what my Father had spread across accounts, and God only knows how many times that yours had – he was a Lord, for Christ’s sake! Oh! Are you Lord Croft now?” he asks, suddenly side-tracked.

“I turned the title down,” Gerald mumbles.

“Oh- but no matter, no matter! Please, Gerald, just consider what I’m suggesting.”

He looks as desperate as he can. He’s gotten good at seducing Gerald with sad eyes – he can only hope it works as well in business as it does in the bedroom.

“I think it’s quite radical and I do honestly worry that one day I’ll wake and find you’ve run off to Europe with the Communist emigres- but, for you, I will try it.”

“I knew you would,” he whispers, and suddenly they’re a hair’s width apart, and their lips are together. He feels Gerald pushing further but disconnects. “Not here. Let’s trade fairly. Off to bed with us,” he says against Gerald’s mouth, and feels his grin in reply.

\---

He struggles to walk the next morning.

It’s wonderful, really, the way the soft kiss Gerald presses to his forehead as he leaves the bed to dress for work so sweetly mingles with the aching in his thighs. And yet he cannot take comfort in it, lounging around like one of Mr Wilde’s creations while his lover works for their wages. His workers can’t just decide to take a day off to sleep off particularly vigorous lovemaking. Maybe they should look into making a rule about that.

He thinks about his employees a lot, be it during the day or in his dreams. Swirling images of Eva are interspersed with other nameless faces and polished off with Molly’s sneering lips. As he sleeps, he writes lines a thousand times:

“I am not to be forgiven.”

He thinks about the fairest way to distribute wages, because not a single way seems simple and affective enough to even begin to stitch the gaping, guilty void inside him. The conclusion his mind keeps spiralling towards, like a rolling hoop about to collapse to the ground, is for the workers to own the means of production. But where does that leave him, leave Gerald? In such a scenario, he wouldn’t be above taking a manual job at the factory himself, but he knows deep within himself that Gerald would rather die, dramatic homo that he is.

Is it love that’s preventing him from pushing Gerald out of his role at the company, or selfishness?

He reminds himself that Gerald _does_ , in fact, hold great value in the workings of the firm. He arranges agreements and trade. He oversees the finances and the workings. He could certainly use that power to bring about positive change, to improve the safety of their machinery, to make the rules more empathetic and forgiving. Gerald has value. It’s Eric who is the filthy piggyback rider.

From each according to his ability. He needs to prove his worth.

\---

He thinks he knows where to start.

To have the community he’s hoping for, there needs to be direct communication and understanding between Gerald and the workers. They need to be working towards the same goals. They need to have, to put it simply, friendly relations.

He doesn’t think Gerald’s capable of such a thing.

Not through any fault of his own, Eric rationalises, but as a by-product of his high-class upbringing. Daddy Croft may be dead and buried, but his spirit must live on in the nooks and crannies of Gerald’s brain, the corners that Eric is yet to sweep. He is far too liable to dismiss the workers’ opinions, to become blind sighted by his own viewpoint.

They need a diplomat. Eric thinks that’s a role he could fill.

But, he painfully reminds himself, in the past he has not been such a good branch for working girls to perch on.

Eva. Every line of thought comes back to her. The bright crimson thread tying together every Birling. Their greatest downfall.

She’s becoming more real to him in death than she ever seemed in life. Their flesh-to-flesh interactions were riddled with booze, hazy at best, a low point at a time when Eric was younger and overflowing with failing masculinity and high expectations. But now he’s mellowed, now he’s older and wiser, he feels he can see her for what she was: smart, and principled, and vulnerable, and scared.

There’s no end to the story. It’s almost impossible to escape the vivid flashbacks he has, reliving the night Inspector Goole came to dinner, and reliving every night he relived on that night too, because there is no point where the narrative draws to a close. It’s a gaping wound – the Inspector disappears as suddenly as he’d arrived. If it were a book, he’d call the author a coward for not enacting judgement on them there and then.

He needs to know, to solve the mystery of the Inspector and how he knew so much about them. Then Eva’s spirit will be at rest; and his mind will be free again, so he can turn his attention to more useful things and earn his living. That’s what he ponders, tossing and turning, tangled in their joint sheets while Gerald is away. It’s his turn to call on the Inspector.

\---

It’s an unsurprisingly huge task.

Inspector Goole seems not to exist. There’s no knowledge of him when he asks at the Brumley Police Station – and doesn’t _that_ get him some odd looks from the local plod, who seem to have ideas about the Birling family just vague enough that he leaves without being arrested, but just detailed enough to treat him coldly. Arthur Birling must be turning in his watery grave, seeing how far the force has wandered from his payed-off grip.

He even dares to return to his factory and make conversation with the nicer women from his last visit. He approaches the topic from as innocent a direction as he can, asking about prior employment and knowledge about the 1910 Strike before dropping Eva Smith’s name. Most have no idea who he’s referring too – or they pretend to, their minute flickering of expression the moment the two syllables leave his lips telling another story. He doesn’t press any further, though: Molly watches him closely the whole time, as though she were the guardian angel of her co-workers.

Eventually he builds up the courage to ask Molly herself. He doesn’t bother with false pretences.

“What can you tell me about one Inspector Goole?”

“What I can tell you, sir, and what I shall tell you, are two entirely separate things.”

“What will you tell me?”

“Nothing, other than that I know him.”

He hopes she can sense his desperation. He’d bare his soul, the whole truth, for just a slither of information.

“I just want to make up for what I did to Eva Smith, however I can. I truly feel that he’s the way forward.”

“I will never-”

“You’ll never forgive me, I know. I still intend to try.”

She scowls, which would worry him more if it wasn’t so close to her resting expression when he’s near.

“Inspector Goole is a kind man. He funded Eva’s burial at Pinewood Cemetery.”

The thought of Eva’s grave has never occurred to him before. A rock falls through the bottom of his stomach.

“Thank you so much, Molly. Thank you,” he breathes, bowing his head. He leaves before she can murder him in cold fury.

\---

“I really don’t see why we’re doing this,”

“It’s moral, Gerald! And besides, you’ve been saying you want to take me out on the town.”

“But a cemetery, Eric? Really?”

They’re clothed in their darkest suits and long, black coats to shield them from the mood-appropriate drizzle outside. Eric is fiddling nervously with a bouquet – handpicked from their own garden, salvia and hibiscus and acorn leaves and daisies. He can’t decide if the daisies are appropriate or not.

They walk down into Brumley via unpopulated paths, not quite hand in hand but certainly lingering, just too close to be socially acceptable. They separate by the time they reach the cemetery. Eric leads, scouring row after row of headstones, names tumbling before his eyes like raindrops off his eyelashes.

Gerald finds her. He stops dead and calls out, producing more of a squeak than a word. Eric joins his side wordlessly and props the flowers up against the slab. It’s not alone there – his guts sting as he sees a far too familiar face, pictured and framed, sitting on the dirt.

“She really was one person, then,” Gerald mumbles. “After everything, I still had doubts… hoped- thought it might be a trick.”

“I hoped that too, once,” says a voice behind them, and Eric turns so suddenly the muscles in his neck scream.

“Bloody hell,” mutters Gerald.

There he stands, haunting them. Eric thinks it may just be the very outfit he wore when he visited a year and a half ago. Neat but unimposing – a man of average build, average tone, but so thoroughly able to dominate with his words.

“I thought, let this be a trick, let this be my eyes deceiving me. But there she was, utterly lacking in life, her insides burnt out. I could almost see pitiful screams on her face. Wretched,” says Inspector Goole. Eric cannot speak, nor breathe.

He glances back at the photo laying on the ground. He doesn’t want to imagine that face inflamed and agonised. He does unwillingly.

“Inspector,” says Eric at last. “I am glad to see you.”

“Is that so?”

He nods.

“I was looking for you. I want-” the words catch in his throat. “I wish to apologise.”

“Well, you’ve never wronged me.”

“I wish to repent, then.”

“Well, that is God’s business.”

“Inspector,” he says, raising his voice more than he meant to. The air is thin and freezing against his skin. He cannot tell if Gerald is watching him or not. He hopes not. “Inspector,” he repeats, calmer, holding his hands up as tightly clenched fists by his sides, not out of threat but of attempt to control the tension coiling within him.

“Mr Birling.”

“Inspector, you were right about everything, about community and all that. I’m trying to live by what you said, to make things better for the workers at my – our-” he blurts, gesturing to Gerald, “our fathers’ factories, I want to make things fair. But I’m of no use at all, not lately, because all I can think about is that evening in April, and how you changed things. There are parts that I simply cannot comprehend. Inspector, if I may, I have questions.”

The Inspector tilts his head ever so slightly to the side in consideration.

“I’ve heard talk about you, Mr Birling. I’ll answer questions I deem appropriate, how I deem appropriate,” he states.

“Thank you.”

“Is there any worth in sending Mr Croft away, or am I right in assuming anything I say to you will make its way to his ears?”

“Ah… he may as well be here for it, I suppose.”

The Inspector seems almost smug.

“Then I am right in my suspicions about the two of you. Very amusing. Well, Mr Birling, I’ll accept your questions, and any from Mr Croft too.”

Eric opens his mouth to speak, but Gerald interjects before he gets a chance to.

“How did you know about… us?” he asks, or begs, and Eric is surprised by the outline of his tone, soft as damp paper and tinged in vulnerability. It occurs to him that Gerald may be as haunted by his time with Daisy Renton as he is by Eva Smith. He never talks about her – he’s never known him to cry about her, or to wake up screaming about her – he’s never gone into particular detail about her. It occurs to him that Gerald may have loved her, and that his ways of mourning are not at all like his own. It occurs to him that Gerald’s relationship her was built on entirely different grounds to his with her, and his with him. He does not know where to redirect the river of jealously flowing through him. He does not know why he is jealous of a dead woman.

He’s so preoccupied with the thoughts buzzing around the hive of his head that he almost misses Inspector Goole’s reply.

“She kept a diary. Oh, it was beautiful. She had quite the way with words. In another life, she could have been a writer,” he says. Six eyes wander uncomfortably to the gravestone. Eric thinks of the artist six feet beneath their feet and finds he would rather be anywhere else.

“But… how did you know about her diary, then?” Gerald persists. “I simply cannot imagine… how did you become aware of her situation? How did you realise her connection to us? How… Why?”

The Inspector removes his hat, spins it once around one hand, and places it back upon his head. He pushes both hands into his coat’s pockets and sighs. His moustache bristles.

“No one ever imagines how,” he says, sorrowful tone conflicting quite horribly with the smile quirking the corner of his lips. “None of your type can ever picture it. I sometimes pity the existence you must lead.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” says Gerald, blinking quickly and peering forwards. Eric recognises it as distinctly businessman, the well-raised lad politely navigating through what he sees as an inadequate response. He remembers Sheila’s cries on that fateful evening, her insistence that there is no hope in deceiving the Inspector. He finds himself wanting to follow in her footsteps.

“He means that, because we’re upper class, we don’t see our workers as people,” Eric hears himself say. “We don’t see anyone as a person. We don’t have friends, not really. We have business partners and subordinates. But the lower classes, they understand community and care. That’s how he knows.”

Inspector Goole fixes a piercing glare on him, making his skin prickle.

“I knew I’d gotten through to you, too, Mr Birling. As I said, it’s always the young’uns. Why my message evaded Mr Croft here… well, who’s to say how his mind thinks and understands? Certainly, I wouldn’t dare too,” he drawls. It feels like a threat. The younger men simmer in stunned silence, until Gerald chokes out:

“You… you were friends with her?”

The Inspector smiles blood and roses.

“Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of meeting Miss Smith myself, at least, prior to her suicide. But I know well many of her colleagues. There are a lot of busy bees in Brumley, you know, working together to unionise. It was once my job to try to stop them.”

“I don’t-”

“Gerald, stop!” Eric cuts his lover off. Here they are, in this Inbetween, this zone of truth and revelation and repentance. And here is Gerald, refusing to see the light. He could never be annoyed at him, not really, but he’s close. How does he sometimes seem so aware of the injustice in their world, only to regress into his sheltered capitalist mindset whenever the opportunity arises?

Perhaps all those nights wrapped in each other’s arms, whispering sweetness and revolution, are delusion, and Eric is seeing only what he wants to see.

That is too horrific to accept, so he refuses. He closes the distance between the two of them, pushes his elbow into Gerald’s soft upper arm. “Let him speak, and listen,” he implores. Gerald obeys. The Inspector eyes them with bewildered amusement.

“You are seeking my whole story, then? Very well. I have investigated all there is to know about the two of you. It is only fair exchange that I inform you about myself.”

\---

“I was born to a working family in a town far from here. I doubt you have ever heard of it. It does not have Brumley’s level of industry, nor the wealth some families here hold, but nor does it hold the inequality and suffering. Had Miss Smith moved there seeking work, instead of here, perhaps this would not have happened. Alas, she did not. My father was a carpenter. My mother passed shortly after my birth. I was raised by my father and my mother’s old friends, girls she had known growing up, who in turn had become washerwomen, teachers, maids and the like. It was these women who taught me the solidarity of workers, and their toil that showed me the great faults in our society.

In my adolescence, my father’s hard work and the generosity of our community allowed him to afford to send me to a prestigious school some miles away. There I learned not only reading, writing and arithmetic, but also my great disgust with the ways of capitalists. There young boys gloated of their fathers’ exploitation of vulnerable women, their decimation of strong bonds and cultures, all in gluttonous lust for profit. There I vowed to never be a businessman, and to expose the rotting blanket coating the world.

These morals led me to join the police force as soon as my education was finished. I believed what I had been told - that fine, law-abiding citizens benefitted society and that the destitute thieves and drunkards were the only criminals. I believed this despite my upbringing proving otherwise! Not for long, though – one night, in 1905, spurred on by revolutionary striking over in Russia, a large group of workers took to the streets in search of better wages and conditions. What brutality I saw! I watched my colleagues beat and drag those desperate people. I saw pigs in the trough, snouts rummaging for power – and I realised, the police are servants of you capitalists, protecting the interests of men like you, and not of the majority.

The next morning I disappeared from that place. I had, at last, all I needed to inspect those who control society, to discover their crimes: the demeanour and identification of an officer of the law, the knowledge of how to investigate. I have travelled ever since. In each town I reach I befriend workers who are willing to talk to me, and I network, and I track down those who are oppressing them, and I force them to look in the eye the consequences of their actions. It is not normally like this. Brumley is rife with injustice. There are many Eva Smiths, but few meet such an end as she did. Everyone I spoke to when I arrived mentioned her. It seems her story was quite the favourite gossip of dirty old men and working women alike. The men told it as a story of conquest, while the women told it as a warning – but I digress, I would have heard rumours whether I had wanted to or not, though I must admit they weren’t entirely accurate, nor did anyone seem to really believe them. It was a fairy-tale to them. Apart from to one woman. An employee of your very own, I believe. She had been very, very close to Miss Smith- she was distrusting and somewhat unwilling to talk to me- until one April night, when she ran to me in distress, and through tears she informed me that Miss Smith had made her suicidal intentions clear to her. She didn’t know what to do. Luckily, I did. I knew it was too late to save her, but I also knew her tormenters could be punished. Molly provided me with a photo and a diary, and off I went, climbing up the hill to your humble abode.”

\---

“Now you know how I did it. Now tell me, what will you do with that information?”

Eric’s throat is too tight to speak. His hand at some point snaked to Gerald’s, and he is gripping him tightly, the other man’s warmth all that is keeping him grounded.

“I am… impressed,” says Gerald at last. “You are certainly principled… and… hard working. You have… given me a lot to consider.”

“I have given you all I can. What you do with your consideration is now in your hands,” states the Inspector. With a final glance at the grave they are standing around, he turns, and strides away.

For a few steps.

As if having forgotten something, he pauses, and steps back towards where the younger men are standing. Two eyes fixed on Eric’s body. He shivers. All he sees is the Inspector, the brilliance and radiance of his ways, and in that moment the world is only Inspector Goole and himself, and eternity is now.

“Oh, and also, I am God,” The Inspector says, and turns again, and is gone immediately.

Eric’s head jolts to observe the newly empty space

“How…” he trails off.

“How what?” Gerald asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” says Eric too quickly, and the light in the empty space is blinding, and Gerald’s halo is black, and his stomach is aching to be sick.

\---

“I half expected him to say he had once loved a working woman,” chuckles Gerald from his position on the edge of their bed, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the vest underneath. “God, imagine if he had an affair with Dai- with Eva, too! What a club the three of us would have had.”

The words spike Eric’s painful head like needles. He neither opens his eyes nor replies, instead remaining by the bedroom door, forehead pressed against the cool wood.

“It’s not funny, Gerald. Please don’t laugh.” His voice cracks as he whispers.

“Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to lighten the mood. Are you feeling any better?”

Eric lifts his head, letting his flushed face and sweat-sheened skin speak for itself.

“Oh dear. Well, come to bed and sleep it off,” says Gerald, beckoning him. Eric can’t possibly move. The pressure in his head is too much, the buzzing so loud he can hardly see. The room, and Gerald, is bleary.

There’s so much to do and to say, it’s crushing him.

“When we go to hell, it won’t be because of homosexuality. Or, that won’t be all of it.”

“Eric,” warns Gerald, but the paint of his voice is highlighted with concern and sadness. “Come to bed.”

“We’ll be punished and tortured for our sins. The Lord hates hoarders of wealth. He’ll punish us for all eternity.”

“Things are changing,” he quips. “Atheism is in fashion now, right?”

“No atheists in foxholes. God is haunting us. Hell is coming. Hell is here.”

“You’re feverish. Please, Eric, come to bed,” Gerald repeats, his arms opened towards him, and Eric falls into his embrace, ignoring the shouts ringing in his ears and the fire behind his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with this! We're in the home stretch now. Comments are greatly appreciated :)


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